Everything Must Go
by Ministry Agent
Summary: We are all executioners of something, but only in the mind... (Deception is a right. Truth is a privilege. Innocence is a luxury.)
1. Damnant Quod Non Intellegunt

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Every culture has its distinctive and normal system of government.   
Yours is democracy, moderated by corruption. Ours is totalitarianism, moderated by assassination.

-Unknown Russian

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Chapter I:-  
"Damnant Quod Non Intellegunt"

_ "It is murder." _

_ Yes, it has been murder. Justified, natural, necessary; perhaps. But murder? Oh by Tsunami, yes.  
Every one was murder.   
Such a horrible word; murder. It makes my life seem worthless. A poor thing to what I've taken from so many, but trust me when I tell you I believed... no... **knew** what I was doing was right.  
It still is right._

_ My name is... unimportant. I have no name. After this is done, one way or another, I will have no name. I will be a non-entity. Never have existed. Never shall be.  
I've seen it happen._

_ So let me relate to you a tale, because you aren't listening and I have little to fear. This life will be dead by tomorrow._

_ Thank Tsunami for small mercies._

The Royal Guardsman clicked his heels together smartly, saluted, turned around and, with a flourish, pushed the great oak doors open. Hirofumi waited until the guardsmen had made sure that the inhabitant of the room was prepared before he made entry.  
The call had come at short notice, which in itself was not unusual, and so Hirofumi had come dressed in his politic robe; a long turquoise kimono that rested just above his strapped sandals and socks' ankle. He had left his sword and scabbard in his office, as a sign of respect for the guards. It did nothing for their morale to see the Prime Minister of Jurai wandering the corridors of the palace blatantly displaying his belief that the guards weren't good enough (although it was true that he thought them not up to the necessary standards).

The alpine wind was blowing through the corridor behind him. It wasn't empty, but was certainly nearing it. Apart from the guards, there were a dozen or so courtiers talking and passing through from one area of the west wing to the next. Hirofumi had never understood why the entire wing wasn't closed off when the King was in presence, but before he could linger on that thought there was a cough from the room. Quickly he made his way inside.

His Royal Highness, King Azusa of Jurai was sitting on a cushion in the centre of the room. Another cushion was set out before him. The Prime Minister's eyes took in the rest of the room by force of habit. To his right was a huge four-poster bed, draped in silk, a small writing desk and chair sitting beside it. The top of the desk was strewn with papers and writing instruments, as though someone had been writing but had become tired or angry and had dropped everything in irritation. The left of the room had a large, ornate table with six chairs set out for more 'politically subtle' meetings that were held from time to time. Encompassing the far wall, behind the seated Royal, was a huge circular window which looked out across the Jurai's capital city. From this height the vehicles looked like ants and the bustling pedestrians like specks of dust, and all of that was caught in the dull gloom of the setting sun.

Without a pause he strode in and knowing how punctuality was so important to the King disdained from bowing, just quietly kneeled on the cushion. Now closer, he noted that there was a small tea tray with a pot and two china cups set between the two cushions.

The King opened his eyes and looked over Hirofumi's shoulder. The two guardsmen by the door bowed and stepped into the corridor. The door closed behind them.  
An ominous sign at best.

"You called, sir?" asked Hirofumi, shifting uneasily, but unnoticeably, on his cushion.

Azusa nodded. He looked at the floor for a second, "Tea, Hirofumi?"

The Prime Minister nodded in turn and stood up. Anything to break the tension. "Of course, sir," he said, "I'll get you some immediately."

"I wasn't asking," said the King quietly, "I was offering."

Hirofumi stood there for a second and then sat back down at his place. This wasn't something he had been expecting. Carefully, he picked up the pot of tea and poured two cups. He handed one to his liege, who took it without question.   
The King's usually hard-set eyes seemed watery and his hands shook slightly. The tea sloshed in its container for a second, and Hirofumi let the other man swallow a mouthful of the green liquid before he started his own questioning.

"Trouble, sir?" He picked up his cup and held it carefully at waist height, but didn't drink from it.

The King kept his eyes on his own teacup. "Hirofumi," he said, "We have always been friends. Haven't we?"

The Prime Minister swallowed dryly. This was going to be bad. His mind raced. His palms felt uncontrollably sweaty, and it was shear force of will and training that kept him from throwing the cup away and running screaming for the door. "Of course, sir," he replied calmly.

"And whatever I have done... has always been for the best. Hasn't it?"

Hirofumi nodded and put the teacup back down on the tray. "Yes, sir," he said, "They have always been for the best."

"Then, Hirofumi, my trouble is that if I do nothing it will be for the worst, and if I do something, anything, it will be for the best, but will tear Jurai apart. Tear _me _apart. Which, in your opinion, would be best?"

The Prime Minister pretended to ponder for a second and then answered, "Anything that is for the best is always the right choice."

Then he wondered if he had said something wrong because the King stood up suddenly, turning, his cloak billowing out and brushing Hirofumi's nose, then strode purposefully toward the window.

Hirofumi wondered whether he should leap forward and stop the Emperor from his attempted suicide, but before he had time to react the King had stopped and was standing at the glass, staring at the cityscape below.

"You know of the Report, don't you Hirofumi?"

Hirofumi frowned. He'd had so many reports pass through his hands, _hundreds_ over the last few days. "I'm sure I do... perhaps you could jog my memor-"

There was a tap as the King's forehead moved forward and rested against the cool glass. "The Galaxy Police Report."

"Ah. Yes, sir. I know exactly of it." And so Hirofumi did. It was he who had read the report first. It was he who had analysed it with his top men, and it was he who had held it aloft at the High Council Meeting to be met with cries of disgust and indignation. It wasn't a report the Council had wanted to see.

"Do you know what it's like to have seen... that boy, Hirofumi? That boy... who will become King." There was something strange about the King's voice. Then it dawned on the Prime Minister that the other man was crying. The King of Jurai was crying. At least that explained his turning around and staring out of the window.

"What he'll become. No one should allow that, Hirofumi. My son's mistake shouldn't be allowed to wield that sort of power." The King knelt and placed the teacup next to his feet, before rising again and returning his head to the window pane. "Hirofumi, look on my writing desk please."

The Prime Minister stood up numbly and walked over to the desk by the bed. "There is a letter," called the King, "take it."

It was sitting atop a stack of papers and Hirofumi had no trouble in finding it as it had the large, purple wax seal that denoted Royal Order stamped next to the signature. He read the writing carefully, not allowing himself to miss a single letter. When he was done he took an envelope from another part of the desk and sealed the paper inside it. Then he closed the back with another wax press.

"Are these the exact parameters?" he asked, walking back to his cushion and sitting down, envelope in hand. "Are you sure you want to sanction your-" His voice was perfectly calm, his hands had stopped shaking. In his element.

"The _target_, Hirofumi. It's what we've always called it. It's a target, not '_my_' anything." The King choked slightly and rubbed his eyes. From behind it looked like he could just have been tired, but all evidence proved to the contrary.

Hirofumi nodded. He held the envelope in both hands, again just above his lap, "Once this letter leaves the room there is no turning back, sir."

"My name is Azusa."

Prime Minister Hirofumi nodded again. "Azusa," he sighed, "Your son will not take the mantle. Your daughters too inexperienced. Who do you think will take your place?"

Azusa looked at him, over his shoulder. The tears were rolling down his cheeks and wetting his gown's lapels. "Do I look like I'm worried about that?"

"No, sir," affirmed Hirofumi. He stood up, dusted his knees down and bowed deeply. He continued, "The target's death will be painless. The assassin shall be the best our Empire can offer. There will be no failure, sire." He moved decisively for the oak doors he had entered by.

"Prime Minister!"

Hirofumi stopped and looked back.

Azusa had returned to his window, and his voice was getting even weaker, "Give this Hero of the Empire whatever he wants."

"Sire?"

"Anything he dreams of owning, Hirofumi."

The Prime Minister opened his mouth to say something, but the King cut him off, "Even my lands."

Hirofumi breathed deeply, more for effect than anything else, and then continued on to the door.

When they had closed behind him and the guards had returned to their stations and the alpine freshness was assailing his nostrils, then, and only then, did Hirofumi even allow himself to resume breathing. By Tsunami, he was in trouble! In fact this was more than trouble, this was downright suicide. He wondered whether he should throw himself from one of the corridor's pleasant and open windows, but then thought better of it.  
If there was one thing the External Intelligence Department had taught him, it was develop a contingency plan.

The only problem with that was that contingency plans were generally drawn up in advance, and this one of those things that he had never thought he'd need a contingency plan for. 

The blue-cloaked courtiers where still out in force, in groups and alone, rushing or wandering. Spaced at regular intervals were a dozen Juraian guardsmen, and along the outside walls, the windows gave an airy view across the buttress and trees. Along the interior walls of the corridor were long benches that were used by the courtiers and Palace assistants to lounge while waiting for an appointment with the King, or simply just to get back one's breath after walking the miles of Palace corridor. On one bench sat a courtier, his head resting against the wall separating the corridor from the King's chambers. He was a handsome looking youth, clean shaven and, surprisingly, he appeared to be asleep. The Prime Minister walked towards him and sat down next to him.

The courtier's eyes fluttered open and raised his head so he was looking quite clearly at Hirofumi. Then he smiled suddenly, his eyes twinkling.

"Prime Minister. It's been so long."; a soft, quiet voice. The man sat bolt upright and looked around as if the corridor was new to him. "Is there something the matter?"

Hirofumi looked at him squarely, "How long have you been here?"

The courtier shrugged. "As long as was needed." He stretched and yawned. "Too long."

Sighing, Hirofumi pulled the letter from the confines of his kimono. "We have a job to do-"

"Yes," cut in the courtier suddenly, "An assassination of the highest order. Someone who is only to be known as the target. Royalty. Someone who our Liege can worry about." He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

"How did you...?"

The courtier, his head still bowed and eyes still shut, raised his arm and tapped the wall behind him gently. There was a soft, hollow knock.

"These walls are far too thin," he said matter-of-factly, "I doubt they'll stand up to a real operative's ears."

Hirofumi shook his head sadly, "It's really quite embarrassing to have you put down your skills in front of other people." He stood up and motioned for the other man to follow, "Let's walk and talk."

The pair glided the corridor, Hirofumi in his purple kimono and the courtier, standing tall in his blue. As they walked, the Prime Minister continued to talk.

"And what is today's name?" he asked.

"Seiji," replied the courtier, "3rd accountant to the Duke of Leiiana."

"I didn't know the Duke of Leiiana had accountants."

"He doesn't," replied the courtier with a wry smile, "Seeing as the good Duke passed away twenty years ago."

"And nobody's noticed that yet?"

A wider smile now. "You didn't."

There was a long pause, and then Hirofumi, in a bid to break the tension tentatively asked, "You know who the target is then?"

The courtier motioned abstractly, "As I said, a real operative's ears would defeat that wall. But unfortunately... myself..." He left it hanging.

They stopped at one of the arched, glassless windows, six or seven yards from the nearest guardsman, and there Hirofumi handed the other man the envelope.

Seiji held it in his hand for a moment, looking at the envelope's unblemished front, and then flipped it over to reveal the wax sealant. He ran his index finger over the trio of swords emblem that was carved into it. "And how many External Intelligence forgers did it take for this?"

"None," answered Hirofumi. "It is written and signed by the King himself. It has the orders on it. The target is..." he paused, "inside."

"How do they fit a man inside such a small envelope?"

The Prime Minister scowled slightly and shook his head again. "I despair of you. If it weren't for your skills and your servitude, I'd say you were making fun of me. And the crown."

The courtier's lips tightened, and he turned toward the window. Looking across the palace's gables he could see the famed Juraian fields, basking under the purple sky. The shadows cast by the sun made it seem colder than it actually was. Suddenly, the courtier was standing on tip-toes and leaning half out of the window. From his vantage point he could see the courtyard below. A troop of soldiers in ceremonial dress were standing in line formation. "I would gladly lay down my life for the crown and those who wear it."

Hirofumi wondered whether the fool was going to lay down his life there and then, '_EVERYONE'S A MADMAN!_' his mind wailed, and was just about to grab the courtier's gown and drag him inside when there was a sudden, near screeched, retort from the far end of the corridor.

"Hirofumi! Prime Minister!"

'Seiji' spun around like a shot and dropped the few inches to the corridor's floor. Storming down the corridor toward the two men, scattering courtiers behind her, was the Lady Misaki. She was waving a wad of papers above her head and behind her, trying to catch up, was one of her clerics. He was flustered and trying to both run and write, but was having little luck in either. Swiftly, the courtier slid the envelope into his gown's cuff.

Hirofumi rolled his eyes and muttered, "And here's a wearer of the crown I'd gladly lay down the life of. If you'll excuse me..."  
He walked forward, arms outstretched, "Lady Misaki. I wasn't expecting the pleasure today." _Or_ _the hassle_, he thought.

"Prime Minister," she beamed, "I've been wanting to speak to you about the budget for the Guard..." The cleric behind her sat on his haunches and scribbled down the minutes for the conversation as if it were a meeting.

"Of course, My Lady. The security and well-being of the Juraian family is my prime concern." He wondered whether she could smell the bitter taste that those words left in mouth. "And it is in my nature to be cautious of such things. Force of habit, as it were."

She laughed, "Could any less be expected of an ex-Intelligence Bureau officer?"

Prime Minister Hirofumi smiled tightly and returned the laugh, albeit a little stonily. _If she shouted that out any louder-_ He had got the sudden urge to kill her, and by the Goddess he could well have. He could have snapped her neck like a twig there and then. CRACK! And she'd have just stood there, looking as inane and happy as ever, with no need to, because she was dead. But he laughed instead, because that gave slightly less chance of being hung for regicide.

"And who is this?" She waved her hand toward the courtier.

Seiji curtsied, as was the way for lower Juraians to. "Lady Misaki," he crooned, "I am Seiji Aryonsaki, 3rd accountant to the Duke of Leiiana. It is truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance." His voice lilted sickeningly, "If there's anything I can do..."

She looked at him and blinked sharply. "Would you mind leaving the Prime Minister and me alone to speak?" All the sweetness from her speech had gone.

The courtier curtsied again and glided over to the window.

After a time, Hirofumi had tired of the woman and finished his talking. The Lady Misaki bid him good-day and, with a cursory look at her guardsmen, strode purposefully to where she was needed, the cleric in tow.

"You really make me look stupid," he said as he stopped by the courtier's side. "Lady Misaki now believes I spend my time with pathetics and fawns."

"Are you saying you don't?"

Hirofumi composed himself and then spoke again. "I expect you have read the Report?"

"Yes. It's quite shocking," acknowledged the other man. "It was the pseudo-third person viewpoint that really clinched it for me. I think an omniscient viewpoint would've cleared it all up. And the less said about the grammar the better." He leant forward and hoisted himself half-over the window's parapet yet again. A few of the more faint of heart courtiers in the corridor watched in shock as the blue gowned man suddenly raised his legs and sat on the window sill. Then he spun around, letting his feet and legs dangle over the hundred and twenty foot drop to the courtyard below.

"You only make things harder don't you," sighed the Prime Minister. "The Report was officially announced to the Plutocracy of Lords eighteen weeks ago. There have been three visits to Earth in that time. All of which have failed to jar the Crown Princess from her... infatuation with Yosho's grandson." The courtier took the letter from his sleeve and looked at it as Hirofumi continued, "It is becoming more blatant. All we need is a leak, a dropped letter, deliberate sabotage... and people will know. What if the public found out?"

The courtier stared down at him. "About Yosho?"

"About Tenchi. About Sasami. About Ryoko. How about Washu and Tsunami? Do you think the public's going to be very forgiving for the fact we've kept Yosho and Ryoko hidden for the last 700 years?"

"I don't know. Is it a rhetorical question?"

"And it's impossible, the coincidences that took place to let this happen. What if the rest is true? Jurai will be brought to its knees."

The courtier nodded and then held the envelope up to the sky, as if to see through it, "So the target's in this envelope?"

"Yes. But before you start I have a certain... request from the King; what's your heart's desire?"

"Not something you can give me..." replied the courtier as he tore the wax seal off with his fingernails and removed the letter.

He read it through twice, carefully. When he was done he placed the letter back in its envelope and returned it to his cuff. "You can't be serious," he said finally.

"I knew it would be hard for you with your... background. But yes, I am deathly serious."

The courtier looked down, over his knees, at the nearly empty courtyard with its cobbled pavements and the guards at parade. "You really can't be serious. You expect me to sanction a target of such... magnitude. I'm not sure whether to be sickened or grateful"

"Are you sure I can't give you your heart's desire?" asked Hirofumi gently.

"No," the courtier said after a pause, "I don't need an incentive to do this, if it is the King's wish."

"True patriots are a rarity these days, but yes, it is the King's wish."

The courtier thought about this, head raised toward the slowly moving clouds. "Prime Minister Hirofumi, what do you think was my life's dream?"

Hirofumi needed no time to think however, "To serve your Emperor with distinction."

"Which I have. Repeatedly," he sighed wistfully. "And I have the memories, and the blood on my hands, to prove it." He half-turned and looked down, into the other man's eyes. "I want to leave."

"Impossible," said Hirofumi blandly.

"Burn my records, erase my files, flush me from living memory. It's not as if it'll take long." He cocked his head, "Sometimes I forget my own name it's been such a time."

"I can't let it happen." Hirofumi said.

"What have I got that's so important? A handful of medals for long service, a citation for some forgotten deed and a dusty little apartment in the city. I don't even have a uniform, and who am I going to talk to, eh? I've spent over a thousand years at this little game, five hundred years more than you did, and as you said; I'm a rare patriot." He stopped as if he'd said too much, but then continued a little more slowly, "And after this I will be dead anyway. A marked man."

"Are you trying to emotionally blackmail me?"

"You asked for my heart's desire, sir, and I've given you it. I want to live out my life somewhere quiet. A farmer perhaps."

Hirofumi shrugged absently. "Very well. Complete your task or fail it, either way you shall no longer be a member of the Intelligence Bureau, or the Juraian Empire. Officially dead."

"Thank you sir. I shall see you before I leave-"

"I am afraid that will be unnecessary and impractical. I am holding meetings all morning." The Prime Minister's face became sad, and strangely old, "You will leave in six hours on a specially prepared flight. I will have a detailed operation plan drawn up in two. That leaves you with three hours to make good your equipment and a final hour to prepare."

"Very good sir."

The Prime Minister half expected the man to suddenly lunge out of the window and engage in some aerial feat, but rather disappointingly he simply spun around and dropped to the corridor. The man held out a smooth hand, "If that's so, I bid you a good life." Hirofumi shook it warmly but the pain on his face said more than the handshake ever would. "Agent, before you go; What are your views on the Bodyguards here?"

"Oh. Still up to your usual anti-Guardsman tricks?" Seiji smiled, "Surprisingly good actually. Except for that one with the scar on his face." He gave a surreptitious hand movement, pointing to a soldier at the farthest end of the corridor, "He didn't check my pass properly."

"I shall have words." Hirofumi said darkly.

The courtier didn't wait for anything else, but set off briskly for the corridor's end.

When Seiji had disappeared from view, Hirofumi sauntered over to the Guardsman who had been pointed out. A rough looking trooper with a scar running from ear to chin, nicking the edge of his lips. The Prime Minister stood in front of the man and looked him up and down disdainfully. The Guardsman stood still, until finally he spoke. "Can I help you, Prime Minister sir?"

"Yes Agent. I think it would be better if you made it less obvious you were letting him through." The Prime Minister reached out and straightened the man's collar.

"He realised, sir?"

"No. But he has become a liability. Have an anonymous transmission sent to GP HQ explaining that there'll be an attempt on the life of a member of the Juraian Royal Family within the next few weeks. Outside of their jurisdiction, but within their tentative abilities to handle, of course."

The Bodyguard gave a near invisible nod. "Will there be?"

"Not in the slightest. But give out the fact that the assassin will be using a cargo freighter. Transport Code 00-789-51-C." Hirofumi took a step back and made sure the man's collar was finally straight.

"That should sort him out, sir."

"Traitors are a dangerous breed, Agent. Along with anarchists, communists and anti-monarchists. Remember that and you'll never do wrong. Now, get to it."

Snapping off a salute and with a brisk "Yes, sir!" the Guardsmen double-marched from the corridor, in the opposite direction to which the courtier had left. Hirofumi smoothed out his robe absent-mindedly, his brain already ticking over a contingency plan for the storm that was, quite literally, ahead.

- - - - - - - - 

Chapter 2:- Dramatis Personae

We are all executioners of something, but only in the mind. However, for some that execution is a more profound experience. What does the advent of 'Seiji' hold for the Masaki household? Who is 'Seiji'? 

- - - - - - - -

**Disclaimer:- **This is an act of fiction. All characters are owned by their respective companies (namely Pioneer and its affiliates). All characters, equipment and situations not owned by a company is the intellectual property of the author (Ministry Agent).


	2. Dramatis Personae

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It's silly to go on pretending that under the skin we are all brothers. The truth is more likely that under the skin we are all cannibals, assassins,  
traitors, liars, hypocrites, poltroons.  
-Henry Miller (1891 - 1980)

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Chapter 2:-  
"Dramatis Personae"

  
His lips and cheeks no longer rouged and powdered in the way of the civil servant, the simpering face gone and with his hair twisted into a stylised ponytail, Seiji easily passed for the businessman he was impersonating. Only the twinkling eyes remained the same in his soft features.

After his meeting with the Prime Minister there had been the usual activity, the collection of equipment and the checking of cover stories, and then he had boarded his flight off Jurai itself and to Colonial Planet 0-315. Unfortunately, it wasn't a first class passenger cruiser, but a rather grimy freighter, with a crew to match. The captain's palm had been oily beneath Seiji's own when they had shook hands, and the man's teeth had set crooked in his mouth when he had smiled at Seiji's 'gift'. There would be no problems with this trip, he had said, and Seiji had believed him. The amount of money he had passed across the brute's hands was enough to keep a large satellite's economy stable.

When the ship stopped at the Juraian Border Checkpoint just outside the solar system that bought loyalty proved true. The crew had kept quiet about their new member, although there was no need as Seiji had jumped ship as soon as the docking began. Without anyone's knowledge he bought return tickets for business class, under a false name, for Earth and the other outlying planets of Juraian control.  
'Always take twice the time, when a single looks good' as his Covert Operations instructor had always said.

So Seiji (now Hitomi Kinitami, deputy sub-vice-president for Gowajirisa Ship Engines Ltd. Or so his passport said) sat in his business suit, his ponytail digging lightly into the headrest of his seat. The ship was much like all the other public transporters in the galaxy. Rows and tiers of seats, bordering thin aisles that seemed to be exclusively used by the stewardesses who smiled and handed out tasteless snacks and drinks. Business class was at the front of the craft and he had found to his relief that there were only three other people in the cabin. One man, dressed in an impressive Tandowan gown and with an equally impressive girth, looked like a diplomat or envoy of some kind, while the other two appeared to be just businessmen. The only women up here were the stewardesses.

He drummed his fingers lightly against the armrests and looked at the storage locker above him for the first and final time. In it was his kit bag, which the Custom's scanners had shown to contain the usual collection of clothes and an adventure novel for the flight. The military grade dampener sewn into the lining had done its job, jamming the tell-tale signature of weapons. It amazed him how something the size of a coin should be able to tell a sophisticated piece of equipment, like a Custom's scanner, that it was looking at something entirely different. He didn't dwell on it. That was the engineers' task, not his.

"Drink, Kinitami San?"

He span around his seat, his eyes drilling into the stewardess who was leaning over a trolley of beverages. He blinked. "I'm sorry?" he asked, "I was miles away."  
She smiled in the calculated and asexual way that only travel hostesses can. "A drink, sir?"  
He nodded, "Juraian Whiskey." A pause, "Is it hot?"   
It was her turn to nod. She handed him a glass of mildly expensive Juraian whiskey, nicely warmed.   
"Thank you." he said, in a voice that hardly meant it, then put his head back and closed his eyes. In the darkness he heard the trolley rattle on its way down the plush carpet, its cargo jangling, and he slowly, he began to tune out all noises.   
Meditation. Zen Power. The heightening of Chi. Applying calming Juraian Power. It all meant the same thing in the end.  
First went the buzzing conversation of those in the economy cabin behind him, followed closely by the sound of the stewardesses talking amongst themselves. When they were gone, there was only a steady beating in the dark.

His heart continued its bass tattoo. The glass in his hand shifted from dull warmth to cold, the coolness seeping through his trouser leg where he held it on his thigh. It caused no discomfort. There was only the darkness, and that was his place. Very slowly, the rhythm began to quiet, its deep thud growing ever more slow, ever more shallow. It disappeared along with everything else and now Seiji was truly in the dark.

Silence.

He raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. A warm, soothing taste in the void. No sound from his throat, his lips, anything. It was here that he could imagine, in this inky blackness of his mind, where he could remember and dream and all the other things that normal people would engage in without thinking about. He concentrated, calling up a vast cavern, its walls and ceiling a mass of tiny pigeon holes, and each one contained a single glowing gem of a memory. He reached out mentally and took one, one that grew dimly amongst the others, and held it.

* * * * *

Jiro was standing in the entrance hall. He knew that his father was beside him, and very quietly he reached his hand up and took that bastion's hand. The entirety of the room was bustling with people, and to him, a boy barely five in Juraian years, the thousands of bustling bodies towering above him and off into the distance was like some kind of sea. A great swarming sea of colours.  
The hall was huge as and in itself. Hundreds of yards long, and nearly double that again in width, with the walls carved from the tree that it had been made from. The din was phenomenal as the sounds of the palace all coalesced into this room and echoed from its hard surfaces. At regular intervals, standing in front of the wall's buttressed ribs, staunch faced Royal Bodyguards stood to attention, weapons cocked. Jiro felt a strange knot of awe in his gut as he stared at these impassive men.  
Then he felt his father's hand let go of his and heard the sound of the man crouch beside him. "Jiro," said his father's voice in his ear, calm as always, "I want you to be very careful around here. No walking off, okay?" Jiro nodded. The man continued, "You'll get daddy in lots of trouble if you walk off."  
He stood back up and brushed the dust from his knees before taking Jiro's hand again, and the pair weaved their way through the crowd and up to the security detectors that lined the hall a two-thirds in. Jiro looked at the man with the soft hat who checked his father's plastic card and then motioned the pair through a fused arch of wood and metal. When they were through that and another man in a hat had looked at his father's pass, they were allowed into a corridor, nearly as massive as the hall and many times as long.

And then the next bit became hazy and get Jiro got the impression of lost time. He knew that he had let go of the hand for a second and that he had followed a soldier in a uniform that he hadn't seen before. This one was mustard coloured with trousers, overcoat and a beret, and when Jiro had lost sight of this strangely clothed man and turned back his father had gone. Where he had stood was a big father shaped hole and more and more of that busy multi-coloured sea poured around him.

He was standing here now though, looking out the window into the courtyard below him. As he'd walked in search, the crowds had thinned, seemingly depending on direction he traveled. In this corridor there was no one, not even the Bodyguards he'd seen everywhere else. The window was a low thing, starting at a man's waist, and so to Jiro it came up to the base of his neck. He stood there and watched the grass below and the sky above it and all the other windows that looked out on the garden below.

Jiro was not a natural born voyeur, but what he saw next, he innately knew was something private. He had been looking at the sky, staring at the clouds that were floating across it and trying to count how many there were, when he heard something in the courtyard below. He lowered his gaze and cocked his head to watch the girl that was running on the grass, another woman watching her. He knew the woman from somewhere, although he just couldn't place the face. It was a soft one, though, with a face that was overjoyed. She was sitting on one of the low walls that surrounded the trees that were, in turn, dotted around the courtyard. Her hair was blue, and that made him look away for a second, although he had no recollection as to why he did. Then he turned back and looked at the girl.

She was about his age and wearing a pale violet skirt. Her hair was done in two ponytails that hung out at right angles to each other from the back of her head, and in his own naively innocent words, he would have said, if asked, that she was quite pretty. At the time she was sitting on the grass, picking at a large white flower that was growing at the base of the tree opposite the woman (who was obviously, in Jiro's eyes, her mother).

As he watched he saw the woman raise her head and look at him. He froze suddenly, stock still, torn between ducking beneath the sill or running. Then she waved at him. Still he stood there, rooted to the spot. The girl turned and looked at her mother, who stopped waving long enough to point Jiro out to her and say something. The little girl looked up at him but did nothing.

Very gingerly, Jiro raised his hand to wave. He held it up and gave a quick jiggle at the wrist and it was then that a much larger and much more forceful hand landed on his shoulder and he couldn't suppress the gasp of fear as a voice in his other ear said,

"Mr. Kinitami."

* * * * *

  
He sat bolt upright and his eyes flashed open. The stewardess standing over him suddenly jerked backwards, her hand flew to her lips as his head snapped around and his eyes glowered at her. Her mouth opened once and then, "Mr. Kinitami, I... I'm sorry to wake you up, sir, but-"   
She took a step back down the aisle. Seiji glared at her and then looked away, keeping his eyes low and fixed on his whiskey glass. His fingers were clenched so tight around it that the knuckles glowed white.  
"Yes?" he asked.  
"You were... having a nightmare, sir. I thought I'd better wake you up." With his gaze directed at the glass, he could see nothing else but his legs and the back of the chair in front, but even so he knew that her face must be flushed. Scared. Her voice gave that away, no matter how much she tried to control it.  
He nodded. "Thank you."  
"Do you want me to get you another drink?" There was still that slight quiver in her voice.  
Very carefully Seiji looked up at her. "I'm fine, ma'am. Just a dream." He held out the empty glass for her, which she took. She took another step back when he suddenly asked, "I wasn't saying anything was I?"  
A pause, "Just one thing, Mr. Kinitami." Then she paused. He looked at her expectantly. "You were saying the same thing over and over again." She stopped again, and so he arched an eyebrow eliciting her continuation, "'Not her. Don't let her be there.'"

Seiji sat there without breathing for a few moments and then blinked, smiled. "I'm sorry." he said, "I do that sometimes. I'm sorry."  
The stewardess smiled back, slightly more at ease, "To be honest I only woke you up in case you woke the others." To which Seiji noticed that the lights had been dimmed and the three other men in the cabin, and probably the flight crew, were asleep.   
"Well thank you." he said again, and with that the woman stepped forward, gave his arm a gentle squeeze and then set off for the curtain that hid the crew from the passengers. Behind him he could hear the collective snores of the economy passengers and the deep bass thrum from the vibrations of the engines.

He sat there for another few minutes to make sure no one was coming back and that everyone else in the cabin really was asleep. When that was proved to be true, he flipped down the meal tray that was attached to the seat in front of him and pressed the on/off switch on the screen behind it. All first class passengers gained a 'compliment' of the transport company; a sub-space communications port to make business meetings that little easier while in the cold infinity of space.   
Seiji took a palm-top computer out of his pocket and, placing it on the tray, pulled a thin wire from a nodule on its top which jacked into a plug next to the screen. The object, affectionately known as a 'tweeter' by the Intelligence Bureau's External Operations agents, gave off a low whine as it went about its business. The screen flashed with static as the machine scanned all incoming and outgoing communications on the ship and then piggy-backed its way onto one of the frequencies, but not before encoding its own messages and 'stomping' any detecting devices that might recognise it. He waited as it began its auto-dial, and then sat forward when the screen changed to show a security officer in Juraian Communication's uniform, wearing a pair of headphones. The officer cut through brusquely. "What do you need, Agent 3-6A?"  
"Open a link to Prime Minister Hirofumi."

The screen blinked for a few seconds as it switched channels and then, just as Seiji was fearing the worst, clicked on to show a view of the Prime Minister, obviously being taken from his desk.   
Hirofumi looked down at the screen and then suddenly breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank the Goddess you're all right, Agent."  
"Sir?" asked Seiji, keeping his voice low.  
The Prime Minister, sitting and keeping his eyes on the screen, took a white lace kerchief from off-screen and mopped his brow with it. "We thought we'd lost you."  
"Lost me?"  
"When you jumped ship from that cargo carrier." The Prime Minister continued. He stopped mopping his brow and started around his neck, "You could at least tell us when you're going to be taking side-trips."  
Seiji's eyes tightened slightly. So they had been keeping tabs on him! He pushed that to the back of his mind. "Well, I just couldn't stand the damn thing's decor." He smiled impishly.  
Hirofumi shook his head, "Can you tell me where you are? I can have Diplomatic Corp. officials meet you when you reach planet fall."  
"That's not necessary, sir. I don't think we need Dip. Corp. on this. And besides, if someone is listening in to this conversation I'd be a sitting duck out here."  
"You're on a public transporter." The kerchief went back to the brow again.  
Seiji nodded, eyes transfixed on the cloth, "Yes. Yes, erm, is it hot over there?"  
The Prime Minister stopped his dabbing and stared at the screen as though the other man was mad. "What?" he said, and then realising held the handkerchief out and off camera, "Oh. No. I've got a meeting with the Council in an hour." A twitch that could have been a grin or a snarl tugged at his lips, "Nerves. I expect you know how it is."  
"I can't say that I do, sir. Now, I've opened this communiqué because I need information that I couldn't get off my orders sheet." With the return to formality, the two men's faces became harder. Poker faces.  
"Fire away, 3-6A"  
"My orders have been taken care of, destroyed, and it's been committed to memory. However there appears to have been no report on _enemy_ strengths. No real operational climate report."  
The Prime Minister's face stayed blank. "You said yourself that you've read the Galaxy Police Report."  
"That's my enemy report?" Seiji couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice.  
"I wouldn't have sent you if I didn't think you could handle it."  
Seiji sat up and glanced around to make sure that no one was awake and then ducked his head back down, as close as he could to the screen. "So if I wasn't here, this operation wouldn't have been authorised," he hissed and then looked away, "Great."

"And then what?" asked Hirofumi. He too had leant forward so his face nearly filled the screen, "And then what, Agent? We'd be in a bigger mess, wouldn't we?"  
"I know, sir. It's just-" Seiji stopped.  
The Prime Minister moved back again. "You should feel just a little bit privileged, Agent. There's only three people in the know here. And you and I are two of them." 

_It's lucky the Queens don't know about it otherwise there'd be no one left alive to be in the know_, thought Seiji, but once again he bit his tongue.  
"You'll go through with it, Agent. We both know you can." Hirofumi opened his mouth to continue, but then closed it again. There was a long pause as the two men wondered what to say.  
  
Eventually Seiji broke the silence. "You know, I never thought Prince Yosho would ever have grand-children. You know, without Ayeka."  
"It's gone far beyond grand-children now," said Hirofumi, and then half to himself, "A lot more." He looked down at the desk and then back up again. "Agent, there was no stipulation about how the target was to be sanctioned. I know you wouldn't deliberately... desecrate the corpse, but in this operation it has been asked that the... well, the cadaver should be as pristine as possible."  
"Of course sir."  
"And.. well, you might need to kill the target more than the usual number of times," Hirofumi said quickly.  
Seiji blinked. "I'm sorry?"  
"If the target has the Goddess on its side I have no idea about whether that may provoke some kind of response. It's been a long time since I went to Shrine-School, but I can at least partially remember some of the more _vivid_ religious stories and-"  
"What? Turning the unenlightened inside out? Bringing the dead back to life? Those vivid stories?" Seiji raised an eyebrow.  
"Yes. And as I haven't had a way to ask any of our databases or staff, or see a priest for that matter, I wouldn't like to say anything about it." The kerchief appeared in his hand again, but hovered immobile a few inches from his forehead, "And forget any personal feelings you have on this matter, Agent."

Seiji couldn't stop the grimace that crawled across his face. "Had to bring that up again, didn't you."  
"And I know you are a monarchist patriot, and a Goddess fearing one at that, Agent, but I wouldn't recommend praying before this operation. It probably wouldn't be good to call undue attention to yourself."  
"No," said Seiji sagely, "No. That's why I'm sitting on a public transport conferring with the Prime Minister of Jurai about a high profile assassination that..." He stopped as someone on the other side of the cabin gave a doubly nasal snore. He waited, then continued more quietly, "That will decide the fate of the future and all the people that will reside in it. No, I'm sure that untoward attention would be very, very dangerous to my health." His blue eyes flashed angrily.  
"Agent," said Hirofumi calmly, "Do you know the saying, 'Fools rush in where angels fear to tread'?"  
Seiji fumed quietly. "Yes, it's that Earth language, English or something. Why?"  
"It means don't just jump into something without weighing it up first." The Prime Minister's kerchief returned to his brow, "Keep that in mind, Agent 3-6A. Close communications."

The screen went blank and the tweeter gave a small chirp. Seiji pocketed it and flipped the tray back into place. He tried closing his eyes, but every time he did he got a strange sensation, a blurry image in the blackness. Soon he gave the very idea of sleep up, and sat there thinking about the target. The target and everything that surrounded it.   
Very soon he was snoring.

* * * * *

"Name?"

Over the years there had been many constructions bolted onto the old Palace. This one was a massive hall (in fact the entire palace was built to gigantic proportions) and its vast area had been divided into hundreds of smaller segments by the wood walled cubicles that had been set up for this occasion. In each cubicle, only a couple of yards square, a hard faced corporal or sergeant of the Juraian military sat, surrounded by a sea of pens and paper forms.

It was that time of year for military application. Again.   
Every half-year the Palace would be opened and the army and navy talent scouts would be sent out to ply their trade in the various schools, trying to attract soon to be ex-pupils into the ranks. War's hell, but there's always more meat for the grinder, as the Generals found with no small satisfaction as the unwashed masses just kept rolling in.

Having queued in a snake of men that wound through the less used areas of the palace grounds, Jiro had finally got a meeting with the denizen of the tiny coop furthest from the hall's entrance door. Having weaved around the hundreds of other booths, bumping into other school-leavers and non-commissioned officers, he wasn't looking his best. He did his best to make his shirt appear the right way around before answering.

"Jiro, sir."

The sergeant looked back at him with bored eyes. "Last name?"  
"That's my full name, sir."  
The sergeant looked even more irked. "You're having a laugh, aren't you?"  
"No sir. I don't use my last name." He gave what he hoped was a winning smile.

"Whatever," the sergeant muttered and then wrote it on the form in front of him. "Age and previous employment?"  
"Two hundred. Just left school."  
There was a brief pause as the soldier wrote this down, and then held out his hand, "School reference."

Jiro rummaged through his pocket and removed a grubby, folded piece of manuscript. He passed it across the desk, the winning smile reduced to a grimace.  
The sergeant unfurled it and spread it out on the table. He rubbed at what looked like a coffee stain and tried to smooth out the creases. Finally he looked up at Jiro, looked back down at the paper and then slid it underneath the application form. "Primary preferred branch of military duty?"

"Royal Bodyguard," Jiro said instantly.

"Royal Guard?" The sergeant looked taken aback, "You sure about that? Not Army? Navy?"

Jiro shook his head, "Royal Bodyguard."

The sergeant sniffed and put some more writing down on the form. "Right. Well, your application will be looked over within the next few hours. If you could come back here in," He looked at his watch, "Six hours, and show this," He picked a little yellow card with various numbers printed on it, "At the desk, you'll be given your mandatory fitness examination, psychological profiling and all that." Giving the card to Jiro, he picked up the two sheets he had been using, stapled them together and then jammed them into a slot in the white-washed wall behind him. 

"NEXT!"

* * * * *

_There are two things that are always certain; Death and taxes._

_ I'm not the right man to ask about the state of the Galactic Union's economy. I mean, I haven't paid taxes since the day I joined... But I am the right man for the killing._

_ I don't do it very often... but it happens. It has to, it's the law of nature. People have to die for the greater good. Some of them didn't deserve it, I know.  
They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you feel bad about it. Very bad._

_ But you get used to it and there is a bit... of... well, enjoyment in the work. It's sick, I realise that now. Always did; deep down at least. But it has to be admitted. The major motivation for my being recruited was that I had a... moral flexibility. Especially where anti-monarchists and non-patriots were concerned. In fact, I'm sure they had to burn a lot of that hatred out of me. Knock me down to my most base and build me back up again._

_ There was this one op. My fifth or sixth... It's so long ago now I can't remember, but I was doing a bucket-job - that's surveillance work - on a safe-house. I can't remember whose safe house it was. I think it was the Ascidians, but it might just as well have been one of those feline terrorist cells. They're always starting something... felines are all the same, and not just because they have pointed ears and long tails... but I digress. That was the first day it hit the fan, and I was there to get splashed._

_ It was meant to be simple. Course, that's a joke. As if we'd get anything 'simple'. _

_ We had this beat up old truck, about fifty years old, rusty, and every day we'd drive up and park outside their safe house. It just happened that this safe house they were using was above this restaurant in the centre of the city, not a posh restaurant but this little bistro thing. Served good food. Rock oysters a specialty, if I remember correctly. Anyway, this truck was done up to be a telecommunications thing for the planets holo-lines. We all dressed up in these dirty red and blue jumpsuits, rubbed axel grease over our faces and then went climbing up communication-poles. Ludicrous. Hilarious. It was like being back at school, but with less wedgies.  
But that wasn't the cool part. The back of the truck had a subspace portal in it, so that if you looked through the rear door or the windows, it looked like an empty truck, but if you stepped in, you actually entered this room that was about three times the size of the truck. Listener equipment, biometric cameras, you name it, it was in there. Got it on lend-lease off Counter Intelligence. It even had room for beds for the eight of us! I wish we had that luxury normally. Nowadays I sit in a hole in the ground for five weeks with a pair of binoculars._

_ Anyway, we're making headway on the situation... got some juicy info, ready to transmit it back to the relays when I decide I'm feeling a little bit hungry. "Who wants food?" And the eight of us were food connoisseurs, believe me, so I step out and wander over to the restaurant for eight bags of rock oysters to go.  
So I'm waiting in the queue to order, and BANG! I spin around and the truck's exploding in slow motion. Shop front shatters, people being thrown like rag-dolls... And I just stand there. The tables near the shop window are knocked over, the customers are riddled with glass, and I'm just standing there. Because, that isn't supposed to happen._

_ It's not supposed to end that way. But it did. _

_ News called it an 'unprecedented terrorist attack'.   
Yeah... sure was. Apparently one of the felines leant out the window and hit the truck with an anti-tank laser. Popped it like a, what's that Earth thing? Piñata? Seventeen dead. Not counting the two unborn children still in their mother's womb._

_ And that wasn't the worst of it because not only did the culprits get away, but we also managed to smuggle the truck out from the police's forensics impound. Its subspace generator had jumped when the vehicle exploded. Those seven men in it, seven men I knew personally, weren't anywhere to be found. For all the clever ideas the Techs put forward, they'd got no real clue. They've got some now, nine-hundred years on, and I wish they haven't...  
When a dimension collapses, the soul, whatever you want to call it, survives. They think they're probably still floating around out there, in infinity, for infinity. Ever alive, ever screaming, in their own personal galaxy... Not even got the dignity of death.  
Didn't get any medals either. I mean, how do you give out posthumous medals if the receiver isn't dead?_

_ It's about this time that you start waking up at night in a cold sweat, screaming your lungs out._

_ Hell. From then on it just got worse..._

Jiro spent most of the waiting time sleeping on one of the chairs that had been set out in an impromptu waiting room. It was hard to keep himself asleep, what with all the bustle and the conversations, followed by the repeatedly shouted, "NEXT!" that was raised every time another volunteer was moved along and another took his place.

Waking, he opened his eyes and looked around. The room had thinned of people quite considerably, the chairs that had been set out were mostly empty, and those that were filled looked like their occupants had been sitting for some time. He was suddenly overcome with a worry that he'd missed his place and fumbling with his sleeve, he checked his watch. He still had another quarter of an hour to go.

"What are you going in for?" asked a voice from nearby.

Jiro looked around. A youth a few years older than him, wearing a Royal Artillery uniform, sat behind him and a couple of seats to his right. He was looking at Jiro intently.   
"What?"  
"What are you going in for? What branch?" the Artillery Boy asked again.  
"Oh, Guards. Royal Guards," replied Jiro. The other man's face changed to a look of amusement. "You're trying to join the Guards? As in Bodyguards?"  
"Yes."  
The amused face split into a wide grin. "You want to join the Guards?" A shake of the head, "You're kidding."

Jiro opened his mouth to give him an answer that probably wouldn't have won him a friend, but just as he did a voice rang out from the front of the room, "Is there a Mr. Jiro here? Mr. Jiro?"

As he stood up, the Artillery Boy leant across and patted him on the back, "Good luck on your post, Jiro. You're going to need it."  
Jiro repaid the compliment with an angry stare and marched to the door.

An officer wearing a badge on his epaulettes that distinguished him as a Training Instructor handed Jiro a wad of papers, that turned out to be his school reference amongst other things, then pointed off down the corridor, "Room 201. They'll get you started." He turned back to the waiting room. Jiro waited for a second to see if anything more was to be said, and finding nothing, did as he had been told.

Room 201 turned out to be little more than a cupboard with two chairs and a coffee table. A thin balding man, Mister Famanai, sat in the chair facing the door, dressed in civilian clothes. Apparently he was an ex-psychological profiler for the Army's Communications & Signals Unit, and he gave off a near tangible aura of calm and understanding.

"Mr. Jiro, welcome," he said and shook the younger man's hand, "Sit, please." Jiro did so. "Do you have your papers?" asked Famanai.  
Passing them to him, Jiro took a look at the coffee table. It was smeared with papers of every conceivable size and colour, much like the desk of the sergeant Jiro had met earlier. Fimanai leafed through the stapled pages casually before putting them on top of the assorted stack. "Well, Mr. Jiro, I'm Mister Famanai. That Mister is actually my first name. My parents had a sense of humour."

Jiro nodded blandly. Noting that his joke had fallen flat Famanai continued, "I don't know if your rights have been explained to you. Have they?"  
"Rights?"  
"I'll take that as a no. Up until the moment you swear the Oath Of Allegiance to Jurai, you have the immutable right to walk out of here."  
Ignoring the fact that he had no idea what 'immutable' meant, Jiro nodded, "I can just walk out? At any time?"

"Oh yes. Any moment. If it gets too much or you realise that you were smoking something a little stronger than tobacco and signed up while in a hallucinogenic fog, you can walk out. Any reason whatsoever. It's marked down on your military records that you were 'unsatisfactory material' and you never get a chance to re-volunteer. It saves the government money and it stops a world of grief for those children, and their parents, who just signed up to look big. And the best thing is, no one need know. You don't even have to tell your family. Simple as that.  
"Secondly, if you live near here... do you live near the palace?" Jiro shook his head. "Well, if you did, you could sleep at home, but we'll put you up in a billet in the palace grounds for the next week. You'll obviously be sharing."  
"That's not a problem."  
Famanai picked up Jiro's application papers again and placed them on his lap. "When we've finished this little talk, I'll take you along to the medical examiner. That reminds me, you'll have a number of tests;" He held up his hand and started counting them out on his fingers, "Medical, psychological, and mental / intelligence. The first one is to see whether you're up to it physically. If you flunk it, you can try again next time we start asking for people to come forward. Psychological testing is to see what sort of person you are. Officer material, whether you have inhibitions, and so on and so forth." He opened the papers again and looked down at them. Without looking back up, he finished off his speech, "Mental and Intelligence is to see what kind of mind you have. Whether you're a maths man or whatever. Of course, if you are a maths man you'll be snapped up for the Navy immediately. Not enough space-superiority-fighter pilots around these days."  
Finally he raised his eyes to Jiro and smiled.  
"Once we've done them, you'll probably go through some more tests. Just variations of those three, and completing that you'll get to choose your unit."

"I already chose my unit," Jiro said suddenly, "I put Royal Guard down."  
Eyes darted back to the sheet on the lap. "Oh yes. Well, you have to realise that this is a preference. Half the time, some joker will look at it and have you put in the 'Royal Household Bodyguards Auxiliary Food Supplies Unit'."  
"You mean a cook?"  
"No. I mean a man who drives a truck loaded with crates of rations." He took a pen from a pocket in his civvies and noted something in the margin of the sheet.  
"Alright. If you wouldn't mind following me..."

He was taken to a doctor, who undressed him down to his undergarments and subjected him to an obscure coughing ritual that seemed only be favoured by those in the medical profession. He was given a reaction test and, soon after, a stick was placed in his mouth and he was made to say 'Ahhh'.  
Eventually, the doctor handed him back his clothes and let him go behind a light green screen to redress. When he emerged, the doctor was on the other side of the room writing something.   
It was very much like any other medical room. White-washed walls, with cream floor tiles and lights that seemed to make everything look like it was a bad dream. Running around the room, attached to the walls, was a series of worktops. Jiro walked over to the nearest and looked at the collection of instruments laid out on it; scalpels, measuring sticks, a metal and wood thing with a twin bladed coil and all manner of other objects made of bark and metal.  
"Don't touch," said a voice behind him. Jiro turned and saw that the doctor was watching him intently. The medic shook his head angrily, "It doesn't matter whether they're butchers, bakers or candlestick makers, they all want to play with the scalpels."  
Jiro pulled a face. "I was just looking."  
"That's what they all say," said the doctor. He walked over and held out yet another piece of paper, "Until someone loses an eye."  
Feeling a little guilty, as Jiro knew deep down that he had been going to pick it up, he took the paper.  
"Room 6732 is where you'll get your mental examination," said the doctor. He pointed at the door. "Feel free to leave."  
"But am I fit enough?"  
With a baleful glare the doctor made an even more forceful motion at the door. "You won't be if you don't get out now."

In the mental test there were questions that ranged from the stupidly easy to the taxing to the purely impossible. Jiro was given an oral test by a stern faced battle-axe wearing a Naval Intelligence uniform and her hair done in a bun, and then he was passed along to a gentleman wearing a curious and rather alien (at least to Juraian viewing) charcoal suit and tie. He handled the mathematics side, which brought Jiro out in a light but cold sweat as he found that more than half the questions made little to no sense. Completing that he was bounced to another room where a captain from Army Intelligence sat with an artificially sentient computer and the two of them asked questions that seemed so trivial as to be unnecessary; "What breakfast did you have this morning?" "Did you eat it all?" "What about yesterday?" "Have you owned a pet?"  
He was handed another piece of paper and the Captain stapled it to the rest of the sheets. "Room 56... Psychological evaluation."

Jiro's feet were really beginning to ache by now. It was stupid! He was just being passed around rooms like he was a parcel at a party game. Every time he arrived at a new room, a young man or woman would leave just as he made to knock and just as he left there was a young man or woman ready to knock. At least twice, he had arrived at a room to see a man or woman leaving, tears streaming down their faces. Whether this meant they had failed or not, Jiro had no clue, but he wasn't crying yet, so he must be doing _something_ right. Jumped around six different psych rooms, he suffered an inkblot test (what they were being used for in this day and age, he had no idea), then was waited on by doctor in psychological warfare kit who just sat there staring at Jiro for ten whole minutes, smoking a cigarette, until another man came in and started asking questions. In another room, a woman with an antiqued wooden stopwatch shot words at him, expecting a response with the first thing that came to mind.

Four days later, Jiro knew that he wasn't going to be a space-superiority-fighter-pilot. Some of the things he had read that were written down about him had brought him to edge of punching the author... _subject has a poor grasping of mathematics_ ... _the subject's mental arithmetic is sub-standard _... _grasping of spatial and geometric principles is poor_. However, he had noted there were some good notes, most often scrawled in the margins, sometimes neatly written out in a space provided... _reaction times above par _... _language handling exemplary _... _subject's eye-sight and hearing is above normal _... _psychological evaluation proves subject is at worst, stable._ The last one was an enigma, but Jiro was pleased with it.

After an aptitude test, where he was given a box full of pens and told to sort them out in order of colour and size as he saw fit, he was taken to the placement officer, Duty Sergeant Nishiki. Both the Duty Sergeant and Mister Famanai were there, sitting at yet another desk, something which Jiro was feeling sick to the stomach of by now. He was motioned to sit.

"Mr. Jiro," said Nishiki, "I see that you like languages."  
Jiro nodded in reply. He did, in fact, like languages. When he had been given the mental test there had been a lot of questions on foreign understanding. He'd also put it on his placement sheet. After the third day he had been given two sheets, one with a list of military jobs on it, and a blank one to write on. He had been told to write, favourite at top, all the jobs he would like to apply for.

At the top he had written, Royal Bodyguard Security Division. Beneath that had come the Royal Bodyguard Marines, and under that he had written a succession of jobs. Naturally he had listed all navy jobs (minus pilot, which he didn't see himself getting anyway) as near the top as they could go. There was the Naval Intelligence Directorate (although the old angry woman who had run the mental test had made him think long and hard about whether he wanted to go in there), Fleet Atmosphere Arm, Naval Land Regiment, and many others. Then there came chemical warfare, psychological warfare, biological and nuclear warfare, combat ecology (which came under deforestation and other biology titles). Even below them there were more, all manner of weird and wonderful names which were mainly under the office of the Intelligence Bureau. This included such things as External Security and Internal Security (which had a sub-heading, Counter-Intelligence Dept.)   
Jiro had left out all the main Auxiliary Units for the Army and Navy. Although they didn't sound too bad, even cushy, he had heard rumours about those unfortunates who got them. Either helping to construct a relay station on some far-flung moon, or being a human guinea pig for new military application diseases, certainly a booby prize.  
The final two, at the very bottom, were Foreign Language Technician and Communication Auxiliary Services.

"Yes sir. I do like languages."  
"Could you tell me how many you speak?"  
"Two," said Jiro. Across the desk, the Duty Sergeant and Fimanai exchanged glances.   
"It says here that you speak three."  
"That's including Galactic Standard. I speak Riclotiion fluently and Sondonium relatively well."  
There was a pregnant pause and then Nishiki gritted his teeth and looked back at his notes, "Can you drive a truck, Jiro?"

Jiro looked at him quizzically, "Drive a-" He stopped. "Are you saying that I failed everything above Foreign Language Technician?"  
"And you failed that," said Nishiki, gently, "However, we can get you into the Communication Auxiliary Services. They have a lot of need for drivers. Moving equipment."  
"You have to be joking," Jiro started. He stood up. "I can't believe this! You want to put me in some rear unit?"  
"You can still work your way through the ranks-"  
Jiro blanched, knocked the chair over as he stepped back, "It's not the ranks... I'm walking."  
"I respect that, Jiro. But we think you should reconsider-" said Famanai slowly.  
"No... It's my right."  
The Duty Sergeant stood up also, "Jiro. If you walk now you'll never get a second chance at this."  
"At what? Driving a truck?" he laughed, shocked, "I wanted to help my planet... not sit around driving a truck!"

"Well, if that is the case, Mr. Jiro," the Duty Sergeant said. He threw the wad of papers over his shoulder to lay scattered on the dull floor, "How would you feel if I offered you a job not on that list?"  
"Job...?"

"First thing's first. Sit back down and sign this please." He opened a drawer in the desk and took out a further piece of paper and a pen. He put them on the desk on Jiro's side.

Jiro looked at them. Then he righted the chair he had knocked down, sat in it and lifted the paper. At its top, printed in neat block capitals, was 'OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT 1120'. There was a heavily worded block of paragraphs beneath that and at the very bottom was a space for a signature. Carefully, Jiro turned it over and looked at the back. There was nothing else on it.  
"My mother told me to never sign things I didn't understand. Especially for strange men," he said politely and pushed the pen and paper back towards the Duty Officer.

"It's simple enough Mr. Jiro. It is a paper stating that anything said within this room is completely secret. That you will never mention anything spoken in this room to anyone, or if you do you will be tried for the crime of 'Treason against the State'. Also, you will never even admit to having been in this room. And," He put his hand down on the pen and paper and slid them back to Jiro, "You can't leave until you sign."

Jiro still didn't make a move. "Look," said the Duty Sergeant, "You're not signing a Faustian pact here. It's just to make sure you won't talk."  
There was another moment of inactivity. Finally, Jiro took the pen and scrawled his name on the line. He handed it to the Duty Sergeant who put it back in the drawer. "Now that I've signed, do I get some kind of explanation?"

The Duty Sergeant sat a little further back in his chair, inhaled deeply, then began, "Although you know me as Duty Sergeant Nishiki, that is incorrect. I am actually Instructor Nishiki of the Defence Intelligence College, which is operated by the Defence Intelligence Centre, the DIC. The man sitting next to me, Mister Famanai although officially a member of the Communications & Signals Unit, is also a departmental administrator for the Internal Security Division of the Intelligence Services."

"You're spies?" asked Jiro.

"In the loosest sense of the word," the apparent Instructor said carefully, "I'll cut the crap, Mr. Jiro. I have no interest in wasting your time or mine, or my colleagues here or outside. For the last two weeks you have been the prize in an auction that has involved the three largest branches Juraian military. I believe at one point that a fourth, the Diplomatic Corp, offered a bid, but were quickly knocked out by Army Intelligence."  
Jiro looked at them wide-eyed. "What have I done?"  
"Oh, good Goddess, no, Mr. Jiro! You haven't done anything yet. It's what you could be that's got everyone so rattled. Well, you see, when you applied for the Royal Bodyguard, you were run through our computers in case of you being a terrorist or would-be assassin. I won't go into the exact details, mainly because I just ripped up all the notes I was given on you, but when your mental, physical and psychological examinations were checked over, it was found that you would prove a valuable asset to the military and intelligence services as a whole."

"I don't understand. What's valuable?"

This time Famanai sat forward, "Jiro. To put it bluntly, you couldn't make it into the Bodyguards. You're just too damn clever." He looked at Jiro's shocked face, "Yes, I know, a high IQ is a perquisite for entrance, but I think they'd be hard pressed to give you a suitable challenge. In fact, they didn't even bargain for you. The Army likes 'em clever, but without too many big ideas. That's you out. And in the Navy's eyes, your understanding of astro-physics is way below anything they want. Intelligence Bureau would take you on, but they've already recruited their bi-annual quota." He raised his hands in exasperation. "You're over qualified.  
"Even their non-military intelligence branches had to give up. They all think you're useful, but they can't find an actual _use_. Oh, you're clever, you're fit, you've got common sense by the bucket load, but it doesn't negate the fact that their military and intelligence services have no real need for you."

Jiro's lips pursed. "So I'm useless. So what? What's the point of telling me this if I'm of no use to anyone?"

"We didn't say no use to anyone, Mr. Jiro. We said that those branches couldn't find a use for you. We can. We're here to offer you a choice. Walk out of the door, forget anything that was said, and you can go and get a normal job. I'm sure there are a million and one companies who'd jump at the chance to have you on their pay-roll. On the other hand, you can ask us what this job is, get involved and do what you came here to do."

"And what was that?"

"To protect King and Empire."

Jiro sat there, then turned and looked at the door. He looked back at the two men. "Why do you need me for this... thing?"

"Psych evaluation shows you have a certain moral flexibility. Usually we pick people from inside the services, Mr. Jiro. We've found you good enough without the necessary training."  
"You want a spy..."  
"Covert and clandestine operative, actually. But that's the gist."  
"What for?"  
"You ever read a spy novel?"  
"Once or twice."  
"I can't guarantee the thrills and spills of that.." Jiro looked at him. "But you serve your planet and you get a nice pension at the end of it."  
"You think I want a nice pension?"  
"No, you want to take a bullet meant for Royalty."  
"And you worked that out from my psych profile," Jiro asked, "How?"  
Nishiki shrugged absently. "We are the Intelligence Bureau."  
Jiro thought about it, then nodded, "Alright, I'm in. Where do I sign?"

"I wouldn't worry about that," said the Instructor. He patted the desk drawer tenderly, "You've already signed the Oath and application."

* * * * *

There is very little that Seiji could have done that would have changed the situation he was now in.  
Fate is a very curious thing. Of course, fate is more coincidental than destiny, which is plotted and formulaic. Fate weaves and changes as people engage in their own actions. Destiny simply is. So, his sitting on a transport ship, being ferried to a far distant planet that he had only a passing knowledge, was just one of those things that had to happen. A necessity.

At least that's what he thought. Fate. He let it toll in his mind. _Fate_. _Fate, changer of men_. It didn't make him feel better.  
The sleep had proved refreshing, though his fitful waking had done little to calm his nerves and although the lights were still off and the other inhabitants of the ship still slept, he felt sick.

He got out of his seat, taking his hand luggage gym bag from the overhead rack and walked down to the business class toilet. The three other men in the cabin were sound asleep. The fat one was wearing a pair of hypno-phones to his ears, the cord plugged into the seat's communication screen. The screen was scrolling through lines of text and the only thing that could be easily read was the bold type title at the screen top, "Basic English : Hypnotic Course".  
_So the fat one's learning the language_, thought Seiji. He carried on down the aisle, past two stewardesses, sleeping in their own little cubby-hole, and on into the toilet. It was cramped little room with a toilet and a counter with a sink and a mirror.  
Putting the toilet cover down, he sat on it and hefted the hand luggage onto the cabinet that the washbasin was built into. He opened the gym bag and pulled out the two soft-back novels on top. He rested them on the floor, by his feet, and reached back in. Out came a pair of socks, trousers and shirt. Classic clothing for someone to change into after a three week, at least by Earth time, trip. His hand went back in and felt along the solid bag bottom. Eventually he found what he was looking for and flipped open the catch built into the bag's base. The entire bag was actually a sub-space portal generator, temperamental at times, but able to carry double his body weight in equipment without affecting its own mass.  
The entire base of the bag swung downwards, a black hole. He reached in up to the elbow and took the wooden suitcase out of it. He rested that against the cabinet. Then he put his arm back in the kit bag and removed the second suitcase. He rested that against the first.

Personally, he didn't need half the stuff he had got here. The second paperback novel at his feet had two feet of mono-filament wire coiled in its spine, high tensile, tough and strong enough to cut through ten inches of tempered steel. He picked up the second suitcase he'd got out, rested it on his knees and opened it. The sniper rifle pieces stared up at him. Seiji took a bullet from its compartment and weighed it in his hand.  
Heavy. He turned it over and looked at its base. There was a red dot. A hot-loaded magnum round. Two problems with that; For one, if it hit the target it'd make a mess like nothing he'd like to see. For two, it never would hit because its weight would activate shields, if the target had one.

And the target did have one. A very, very good one.

He collected the rest of magnum rounds and lined them up on the cabinet, before taking a bullet from the next compartment. Slightly smaller. He weighed it again then looked at the base. Frangible silver tip. He wasn't at a political rally, so he didn't need those. He held it up so the tip was at eye level. The aim of these was to enter the target, then fragment into splinters which didn't have enough kinetic energy to punch out the other side. Useful if you were going to hit a target making a speech and didn't want it going through and causing collateral damage, but he wasn't really caring about blow through here. Anyway, you could survive a frangible round if you missed something important and Seiji didn't want to put his money on a sniper shot. If they'd wanted a sniper-team, they wouldn't have sent him. He lined them up with the magnum shots and then looked at the final compartment. Gold tipped shield breakers. Very useful, if he actually _had_ a sniper-team with him. He shook his head in frustration. What was the point of giving him a sniper rifle if you didn't give the correct ammunition? He took those out and put them with the rest on top of the cabinet.

The suitcase was dual leveled. On the top level was the rifle and the main bullet types, but underneath that was all the other equipment; wind speed monitors, scopes, heat sensors and secondary ammunition. He lifted the compartment and looked under it. No more bullet types. Therefore no need for a sniper rifle. He closed the suitcase and put it back in his hand luggage. Then he lifted the toilet seat, brushed the assortment of bullets into the pan and flushed. They disappeared, to be dumped out of an airlock and into space. He sat back down again and picked up the remaining suitcase.

Inside was a collection of passports, or 'shoes' as they were called in the trade. All fake, but perfect in every detail. Around them were the real equipment. Sniper rifles didn't even come close to these. He picked up the thin blade stiletto that had been taped into one of the base's compartments, and tapped its tip with his finger. It was razor sharp, so he put it back down, replacing the black tape that stopped it from rattling. He reached across for the second knife and then stopped. 

Seiji looked at his finger, and at the single scarlet dot that welled there. He stared at it, watching the way it rose up from the surface from his finger like a bubble, the way it reflected the light. He raised it to his lips, and just as suddenly, he whitened. The hand dropped down to his knee, palm turned upwards, and he grabbed a piece of tissue from the dispenser with his other hand. Dabbing at the blood angrily, he stood back up and dropped the reddened paper down the toilet. Then he slammed the suitcase closed, pushed it back into the hand luggage and unlocked the toilet door. He walked back to his seat, still ashen faced and the stewardess, now awake, watched as he sat back down.

Even from the other end of the cabin she could see he was shaking like a leaf.

* * * * *

His finger didn't hurt. He'd watched it for a long time. The neat little hole drilled into its tip, but it still didn't hurt. Quietly, he squeezed the flesh on either side of the hole and watched the blood rise again. He looked at the way it ran down to his knuckle joint, and then he pressed the wound to lips. Kissed it. He closed his eyes and sat back.

Lips moved in silent words...

- - - - - - - - 

Chapter 3:- Semper Fidelis

To be forever faithful is to always be a great person. Faithful to family, to friends, to lovers, to rulers. To ourselves.  
The most important has yet to be decided.

- - - - - - - - 

**Disclaimer:- **This is an act of fiction. All characters are owned by their respective companies (namely Pioneer and its affiliates). All characters, equipment and situations not owned by a company is the intellectual property of the author (Ministry Agent). Special thanks to Hospitaller for use of his _Juraian Naval Intelligence Directorate_. I promise I'll give it back in one piece.


	3. Semper Fidelis

* * * * *

"No one should be able to do the things this kid can do, Norio. I've met infantry captains who stopped artillery rounds with energy shields. I've seen pilots who've pulled off twenty gee turns without suffering from ill effects. Shit, I've even watched footage of a woman _throwing_ an eighteen ton tank eighty feet. But what that guy did just isn't human, Norio! He went through those men like they were sacks of meat! Off the record let me say, fuck am I ever glad he's on our side." 

- Jurain Army General Toshimiato Illiasa to Juraian Intelligence Bureau Captain Norio Aokami upon viewing holographic footage of a wetworks performed by Special External Operations Executive's operative 'Dark One' 

* * * * *

  


Chapter 3:-  
"Semper Fidelis"

_**"I, _____, do solemnly affirm / swear that I will support and defend the Empire of Jurai against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the Emperor-King of Jurai and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me Tsunami, Goddess of Creation."**_

_Act 1  
'Barrack Room Ballads'_

  


"If it moves, salute it. If it stays still, paint it."  
- British Army saying

  


_ All Juraian military recruits, no matter their branch, have to attend a twelve week basic training course at one of the numerous 'Crash Camps' dotted across the Imperial planets.  
Everything from proper cleanliness, marching, hand-to-hand and rifle training is mastered there, under the tuition of soldiers whose one sole purpose in life is to make their recruits' lives a living hell._

_If the recruit manages to survive that, keep himself from taking the 'Long Walk' back home, being kicked out, or being back-squaded and thereby having to take the course again, he's shipped off to one of his branch's special 'advanced' training establishments.  
Army has two training facilities, one on the lower Juraian steppes, the other a few miles south of Capital City and in the only marsh on the entirety of Jurai. It's just like the Army to do that. Always going for aesthetics over substance. Their recruits train for eighteen years as a minimum, even more if they take a specialist occupation, like medic or engineer._

_The Navy has a lot of bases, most of them in the Bahn'i Sector. You might have heard of it, it's an entire solar system that was bought by Jurai simply for training Naval troops. Twenty years minimum training, pilots even longer. 85% of pilots are female. That's because they've got better hand to eye coordination and a better head for maths than their male counterparts. I suppose if I'd been better at maths I'd be flying one of those nimble little spaceship things. Naval Intelligence Directorate trainees - the navy's personal reconnaissance and information collection unit - are trained at a 'secret location' in International Space.  
Anyway, the Royal Bodyguards train for VIP protection and base security at a camp inside the Royal Palace itself. Their Marines train with Army Commandos on a geo-stabilised asteroid that circles a quad-star system on the outer rim. VIP Protection units only train for sixteen months, followed by a total indoctrination of a further eighteen. The Intelligence Bureau, the only branch totally attuned for Intelligence collection and analysis, teaches recruits 'tradecraft' for however long it needs to be drilled into their thick skulls._

_And finally the SEOE does all of those courses, and more. Consecutively. They never get to brag about this of course, because they don't officially exist. And most of their operatives are legally dead anyway. I bet you've got no idea what I'm talking about, do you? Neither did I...   
I wouldn't have believed what I'm about to say either. Because, everyone's heard of the Intelligence Bureau at least, but no one's really heard of Special Operations..._

_ There's a reason for that._

_ No one wants to._

Basic Training Camp 040-32, situated two miles south west of Dujiin Forest was a densely plotted collection of wood huts, shacks and tents crowded around a single massive Juraian Holy Tree that's interior had been hollowed into a command centre of sorts. In fact, the tree and its HQ innards were the only permanent thing in the entire camp. Everything else could be collapsed, moved or destroyed at a moments notice. It kept the trainees on the bounce when they had to mobilise and transport the facility to a new area, as the officers proved quite readily.  
The entire camp seemed to have been built on the principle of 'aesthetics breed complacency'. The grass that usually grew so thick and tall had been concreted over, the buildings were made of some alien wood, built using planks instead of being carved whole from a trunk.

Jiro stepped off the bus just outside the wood mesh fence of the camp. Hefting his bag across his shoulder, he looked around. About two dozen other recruits had stepped off the bus with him, all looked to be as worried as he was, if not more so. He was wearing his most comfortable pair of trousers, with a knee-length over-shirt. Some of the others were wearing kimonos or school uniforms. One man was wearing a J'haroia Dress. The black wool brushed the ground and the man's eyes shone out from beneath the hood. Jiro didn't give him a second glance. Any idiot wearing expensive clothes like that at a military boot camp deserved anything he got. _Where did he think he was? A catwalk?_  
In front of them, the wood gate opened. Two privates stood on either side of the gap, cradling rifles. A third man walked through carrying a clipboard. He stopped before the group and, without a word, looked at the clipboard's papers. The new recruits waited, until he began calling out names, ticking off those who replied, and gathered the group up. Leading them past the gate and around a maze of wood shanty buildings, they stopped in a dusty courtyard, flanked by two long buildings. There the soldier told them to line up.

A ragged, snake of a line stretched across the concrete. Thirty men stood, arms at sides, looking about themselves in moderate interest. Jiro sniffed loudly.

"SECTIONS! FALL IN!"

Every face suddenly snapped forward and Jiro jumped a good inch off the floor. A broad-shouldered, mean-looking man in battle dress was marching towards them. His uniform looked like it had been sewn that morning, completely at odds to the screwed up mess that the recruits were wearing. Jiro looked down at himself and wondered where he could get a trouser press. His face whipped back up when another voice bellowed;

"LOOK LIVELY, YOU MISERABLE LITTLE WORMS!"

The man stopped marching and standing a few yards in front of the line, gave a sharp nod to the Private who had told them to fall in. Up close he looked even more intimidating. Craggy faced and clean shaven, uniform's collar brace -or choker, as it was known- tightened to the point of perfection and the two pom-poms (one on either side of his lapel) stood out snow-white. He was tall as well, a little taller than Jiro himself and Jiro was a good five foot eleven; bigger than the average and quite a height in Juraian society.

The man swept the line with his gaze and then tapped the swagger cane he was carrying against his calf. "I am Corporal Fukashimo, your dual-section leader. However, you will simply call me, or anyone else with two of these," He pointed to his pom-poms with his free hand, "Corporal. That is because you are our personal property. When we tell you to do something you will- WHAT THE HELL DO YOU FIND SO FUNNY?"  
Jiro held his breath. Somewhere to his left someone was sniggering. The Corporal looked off down the line at the perpetrator and then marched toward him. Carefully, making sure he wasn't noticed, Jiro turned his head a little to see what was going on. A few others did the same.   
The Corporal had stopped in front of the recruit, the one who had been wearing the J'haroia Dress, and whose stomach was now heaving under barely suppressed chuckles. "Do you have some kind of problem?" the corporal asked.  
"No," struggled the man.  
"'NO,' what?"  
"No, sir."  
The Corporal practically went livid. His swagger cane swung up to a point just beneath the man's nose. "No, SIR?!" His eyes flashed. "NO, SIR?! I'M A SIR, NOW AM I? HOW MANY CHEVRONS DO YOU SEE HERE?" he bellowed, his free hand once again going up to the white fluffy balls on his tunic.  
The man fumbled, his laughing long forgotten. "Two, si- erm..."  
"OF COURSE IT'S TWO! I'M A CORPORAL, NOT AN OFFICER! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?" The corporal turned to a private who had been waiting off to the side, "Private, take this man's name. Have him put down for extra duties." He turned back just in time to see the trainee's shadowed eyes scowling at him. "Oho! And now you think you can eyeball me, eh? Do you fancy me, is that it? You want to have sex with me, do you? You some kind of raving homo?"  
"No, corporal."  
"I'll keep my eye on you," snapped the Corporal. "One false move and I'll be down on you like a ton of oak." He turned back to the private, "After you've taken his name, give him six laps of the camp." He looked the no longer laughing recruit up and down like he was something that had been walked into the carpet by accident. "We'll make a soldier out of you yet. Boy." The last word was said with such spite, such pure heartfelt rancour, that Jiro felt himself begin to sweat.

As the man was led away, the corporal marched back to the front of the section.   
"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, _I_ am Corporal Fukashimo. _You_ will be divided in half into Four and Five Section of Basic Training Camp 040-32. Four Section will be under the command of Lance Corporal Shin-zo, Five Section under Lance Corporal Rio. You will call them corporal, unless specifically told to by them."  
He gave a spin of the swagger cane and pointed it at the group. "You are here because you signed up for it. You are here because you want to be here. Personally, me, my men and my captain couldn't care less. Today, we'll give you a break. We will teach you how to make your beds and how to wash. Once you begin to smell like soldiers and begin to look like soldiers, then you can begin to act like soldiers. After we've done that, maybe we can get onto actually using you for something. Like mine disposal. Or target practice.  
"Once you've wrapped your heads around those complexities, you'll be doing drill. If you survive that, you might be allowed a weapon. Though I doubt my Lances would allow you with anything more dangerous than a butter-knife." The Corporal's lip curled back into a snarl. His eyes moved across the men one by one. "By the King's beard," he muttered, but perfectly loud, "I have never seen such an ugly bunch of grotesque, gobby, putrid little street-urchin in all my years. How you scum are allowed into the armed forces I have no idea. Perhaps the gene pool's becoming a little cluttered; that's the only reason, if you're the best we can have."  
He shook his head, "Privates. Halve this rabble, give them beds and get them out of my sight before they give me nightmares."

Two soldiers stepped from the sides of the courtyard. They stormed up to the line, "Call out numbers," bellowed one of them. He pointed at the man at the end of the line, "From you."  
"One!" cried the man at the end.  
"Two!"  
"Three!"  
And so on, until the man near the middle cried out 'fifteen!' and the two privates roughly moved the fifteen and sixteenth men apart. Jiro found himself being led toward one of the larger shacks. On the outside of it, screwed onto the wall near the door, was a brass plate with "IV" engraved on it. Jiro had no idea what that meant, but before he could worry about it, he was in the building.

The inside of the wooden billets were just as stark as the outside. Floorboards and badly whitewashed walls. The beds were spaced evenly along the walls, eight on one side, seven on the other with the space for the eighth taken up by the door. Next to each bed was a metal locker, about five foot eight high. The recruits stood by one of the metal bed frames, now their personal one. A single white mattress sat on each bed frame. "Eyes front! Attenshun!" roared the man who came in through the door. He was wearing the same uniform as Corporal Fukashimo, but only had one pom-pom on his breast. He paced up and down the centre of the room between the beds and the men. With each step, his swagger cane clicked against the wooden floor. "I am Lance Corporal Shin-zo. I will be in charge of your section, Four Section. You will answer everything with Corporal. Do you understand?"  
"Yes corporal," came fifteen voices in reply.  
"I can't hear you."  
"YES, CORPORAL," shouted the men.  
Shin-zo stopped walking. His cane shot out, prodding the closest man in the ribs. "Do you understand?"  
"YES, CORPORAL!" screamed the man.  
Apparently happy, the Lance Corporal restarted his marching. "I will not be let down by you. If you do something wrong, that's a black mark against me and a gold star for Five Section. And if Five Section gets more gold stars, I get punished by my sergeant for letting you people slack off. And that means I punish you."  
Jiro's bed was the one farthest from the door, and the Lance Corporal stopped suddenly in front of the man who owned the bed to Jiro's left. "You!" he snapped, "What are you here for?"  
"R-R-Royal Mar-r-r-ines, corporal," stuttered the man.  
"R-R-R-R-R-R-R-Royal Mar-r-r-r-r-ines?" he imitated. "Do you mean Royal Marines?"  
"Y-y-yes, corporal." Sweat stood out on the recruit's brow.  
There was a pause. "Right. Well, see that cupboard over there?" The Lance Corporal pointed at a cupboard at the furthest point from the door and by the wall near Jiro's own bed. "Get out one of the blankets in there and bring it over to me," he ordered. The man did as he was told and brought a blanket out. Shin-zo took it off him and held it out. It was a dark green and looked like it had been made from wire wool. 

"This," said the Lance Corporal, "Is your bed blanket. It goes on your bed box." He threw the blanket down on the mattress closest to him and waved away the man standing next to it. "Now crowd around and watch this."  
The billet's occupants moved over to watch as he spread it out, creased it down the centre and then folded the sides down into the bed box's (as the bed was called) frame.   
When he was done he touched the head end of the bed with his swagger cane. "Note, the blanket is laid and then is folded exactly eleven inches down from the top. The outward points are exactly parallel, creases and all. Did you see how it was done? Do you want me to show it again?"  
There were a few nods and he repeated the actions, talking the group through it. "Get it now?" he said when he was done. All the men agreed.  
"Good. Because I expect you to do it exactly like this every morning. If it is wrong..." He left it hanging. "Once you get your kit from the QM, I'll teach you how to lay that out along with it." He looked at the group. "And just to stop Trainee Omitisha here from sleeping on the floor tonight and leaving my good work on show for the morrow," He grabbed the underside of the bed box's frame, "I will do this."  
He lifted the entire bed box and tipped it over, the mattress spilling out and lying in a mess along with the blanket. He wiped his hands together. "Ten minutes, I'll be back. I expect beds to be made and everyone ready to collect dress uniforms from the Quarter Master." He put his swagger cane under his arm and sauntered to the door, opened it and then looked back at the wide-eyed section. "Good afternoon, gentlemen."

* * * * *

Jiro's bed box lay upside down at the end of the room, along with two others and a locker. The Lance Corporal had proved slightly upset at the group's efforts. After throwing the worst bed box down the room, he had picked two others randomly, and then when one of those random victims had complained, grabbed the top of the man's locker, pulled it over and with a series of pushes and pulls slammed it, repeatedly, into the far wall.  
Nobody had complained after that.  
When he'd finished his brazen display of annoyance, he left again. When the door closed the fifteen men looked at each other and then silently set about working the beds and lockers back into place.

When it was returned to its rightful position, Jiro sat on his bed. There was a deep scratch running across the foot of the bed frame, the paint chipped off and gun-bolt metal shone underneath. He'd need to find some paint and set that right, he decided and then pulled his bag onto the mattress. He took his reading book out and put it on the end of the bed. The novel, '_The Pirates of Fiñataz_' and its cover, complete with blaster wielding buxom space-pirate, stared at him. He didn't usually read and he didn't expect to have the chance, but he'd prefer to read than do nothing, and so he put his hand back in the bag. He took the photograph frame out and looked at it. Blushing, he looked around him the other members of Four Section were putting their possessions in their lockers and taking no notice of him, so he didn't feel as self-conscious as he usually did in these circumstances.  
Glad no one was watching him, he stood up and opened the locker, then put the novel in along with the photograph.  
It was nothing more than a cutting from a magazine in a cheap wood frame, but he gave it pride of place, nicely stood up at the back. He loved those eyes, the way they smiled along with the rest of the face. What was that word? He thought about it for a second. Ruby? Scarlet?  
Ruby eyes. That would do. He ran his hand across the photograph, letting his hands linger for a second, and then, realising someone was behind him, slammed the door shut. He span around.

The man looked at him quizzically. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you." The glimmer of a smile.  
Jiro looked at him. He was wearing a loose fitting kimono and appeared practically nondescript in ever way. Actually, on second thought, he was quite old. Well, quite old compared to the rest of the Section. He had to be at least eight-hundred years old. The man gave Jiro a sidelong glance when he didn't continue the conversation. "Just because they call it Basic Training doesn't mean it's going to be easy." he said, with that same half smile and held out his hand. "Parishi Tahito."  
Jiro looked around the room. All the other occupants were unpacking or trying to fix their lockers. At the far end of the room was a single bed-box, its contents laid out perfectly. Even from the distance, Jiro could see the blanket was folded as near to the correct eleven inches as could be judged. He looked back at Parishi and took the proffered limb. "Jiro. Just Jiro."  
"Well, Just Jiro, welcome to hell. What are you in for?" The smile widened, all the teeth showing.  
Jiro said nothing. He turned back to his locker and twisted its key, locking the door. The tumblers clicked.  
"Oh. A quiet one," said Parishi. He stood there, silently watching.  
"Signals Intelligence," said Jiro finally. 

'_Signals Intelligence_,' he thought as he said it, '_What sort of lie's that?' _For all intents and purposes, he was an enlisted Signalman, it being written down on his application sheets and all. Not even the base's officers knew the truth, although Jiro had been informed that some people would put two and two together and come up with four and a half. Close enough to get him seen as some kind of spy... but not hitting the nail on the head and getting the full implications of what he was really entering.  
In fact, Jiro couldn't be sure he knew what he was going in for anyway. "You'll find out when you need to know," as the the Instructor had said. Whatever it was though, he knew full well that the normal Intelligence services were pretty open about who their agents were during training (one of them being six beds away), and didn't feel the need to hide their men behind the facade of communications technicians.  
Behind him, he heard Parishi turn on his heel and start back toward his bed. "Signals, eh?" he said before he did, "Me too."

Jiro let out a hoarse breath and waited a few seconds before he unlocked his locker again. The photograph's smiling face made him feel better, calmer. "Parishi," he muttered into the locker's metal innards. He looked toward the other Signals trainee, who was talking to another recruit near his bed box. If there was one thing Jiro had always been, it was paranoid. And when your Instructor tells you trust no one, you generally listen. At least, Jiro did.  
"I'll be keeping my eye on you, Parishi," he said quietly.  
The locker slammed shut.

* * * * *

"What do you think of this?" asked Recruit Land Mechanic Kittarn. Jiro looked at the hologram projected in the other man's hands.  
"Scrap?" he hazarded.  
Kittarn snapped the projector closed. "That was a picture of my girlfriend," uttered the man, "You really know how to make a man feel happy, Jiro."

Jiro, who had been standing over the man's bed-box, shrugged absently and walked back over to his own bed. The settling in period of eight days had been reached, the point at which military psychologists believed a group of strangers would no longer feel compelled to keep away from each other. The rest of the section lounged around, either on their beds or on the floor. Some reading, others talking in hushed whispers.

However, the bonding between the group had failed to come for Jiro. He wasn't ignored as such, or even disliked, it was just that people seemed to prefer to keep out of his way. Not that he was bothered, there was something about personal freedom that made him feel better about himself.

Laying down on his mattress he reached under his pillow and took out his novel. He opened it where the bookmark had been placed, and continued from where he had left it.

"_The space pirate stood over him, her sensuous curves accentuated by the emergency lights. She held the blaster in her well-manicured hands, and Lozzio felt a chill run through him as she languidly raised the weapon. 'Stand and deliver. Your money or your life.' the criminal decreed, with a flick of her head. Rich, red hair cascaded down to rest on her shoulders and around her ample bo-_"

"SECTION! ATTENSHUN! SPOT INSPECTION!"

Jiro tossed the book onto the bed and leapt up, standing by the side of his bed, arms tight against his sides. The other occupants of the room stood where they had stopped, some even in the middle of the aisle. The door on the other side of the room had banged open like a hurricane had hit it, which it might well have been. Lance Corporal Shin-zo was standing to attention by its frame, in a steadfast salute.  
The two men who walked through the door gave the billet a casual glance and moved in. Corporal Fukashimo and the gruff Sergeant Maino marched in, the former a few steps behind the latter.

"This is Four Section is it, Corporal?" asked the sergeant. He moved over to the nearest bed box.  
"That is correct sir."  
Maino stopped looking at the bed box and reached into his pocket, removing a white glove. He slipped it on and, wiggling the fingers, moved over to the nearby locker, brushing past the man standing in front of it.  
He ran his finger along the top and looked at the digit. "What the hells?" He spun around to the recruit next to him. "Is this your bed box and locker?"  
"Yes, sergeant," came the reply.  
"THEN WHAT THE HELLS' THIS?" The sergeant shoved his finger in front of the man's face.  
"Dust, sergeant."  
"DUST?! YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT'S DUST?! RUDDY DUST, IS IT?"  
The recruit's lip quivered for a moment. "Yes, sergeant."  
"IT'S NOT DUST! IT'S SHIT! YOU'RE SHIT! FROM NOW ON YOU'RE GOING TO CALL YOURSELF 'SHIT'! WHAT ARE YOU?"  
"Shit, sergeant."

The sergeant bent down and looked under the bed. Came up holding something. "What's this?"  
"My drinking mug, sergeant."  
"What's your mug doing under your bed box?"  
"I put it there, sergeant. For safe keeping."  
The sergeant looked at the mug for a second. Then wound up his arm and threw it through the window over the bed, scattering glass across the concrete outside. The mug bounced once, then landed splitting it in two. Those pieces ricocheted across the courtyard, splintering. It came to rest in a hundred fragments.  
"Not very safe was it, Shit?"  
He didn't wait for an answer but continued down the aisle. "I will continue this examination when I return. You will stand at attention until I do so... got that?"  
"YES, SERGEANT!" called out the billet's recruits.  
"Jiro. Major's Office. Now," the sergeant said. His swagger cane had snapped out to point at Jiro, and had then whipped across to the door.  
"Yes, sergeant," squeaked Jiro. He walked all the way to the Majors Office, legs feeling like they had been substituted for rubber, and Maino tailing behind.

Major Fukaita carried, what was to Jiro, the intolerable air of superiority that only officers and teachers seemed to have. He looked, physically, no more different from his underlings than a queen bee looks when compared to her subjects, although somewhere in his distinguished military career he had taken a blaster shot across the side of his face, leaving him with only one ear. There were a good number of witty puns about that, which went around the Sections' ablutions when the NCOs weren't listening.  
Although he was the highest ranking officer in the camp his office was just as sparse as the rest of the facility's rooms. No carpet, no finish to the carved walls and only a desk and a pair of filing cabinets made it look like anyone actually worked in it.

Jiro marched in through the office door, double pace, and stood in the centre of the room, legs still pumping up and down as he marched on the spot. Behind him he heard the sergeant move in and take a place beside one of the dull walls.  
"Thank you, Recruit. You can stop marching now," came a voice from the desk over to his left. Jiro stopped marching, coming to attention.  
"Stand easy," came the voice, "And wheel left."  
Jiro twisted on the spot, his boots giving off a squeak on the polished floor. The Major looked up at him. "You are Recruit Jiro, 00-27638-254, of Section Four, Kam'Sara Platoon?"  
"I am sir," replied Jiro.   
The Major cleared his throat. "Take a seat, Jiro."

There was a single hard backed chair in front of the desk, which Jiro sat down on. The Major flicked through the file of papers sitting in front of him on the desk and looked up at Jiro. "Entering for Signals Intelligence, are you?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"I don't think you are Jiro. I think you're going for something a little more..." He paused for a moment, thinking, "Up market."  
Jiro felt his knees weaken even more. _He knew! The Major knew!_ Even so, he tried to keep himself calm, tried to ignore the throbbing of his heart in his throat. "No, I'm afraid not sir. I'm Signals Intelligence. Nothing more."  
"I don't care much for which agency you are working for," carried on the Major. If he had heard Jiro he made no sign of it. He looked up, "I despise you for it."  
Taken aback, Jiro opened his mouth to say ask why, and then realised the trap he had nearly fallen into. Could see what was going on here.  
_A test? _Perhaps.  
Or maybe the officer really did know... And hated him for it...

Jiro licked his lips thoughtfully, wondered how to reply to that. "I don't," he said slowly, "See how I can be persecuted for something I'm not."  
"I don't care," said the Major. "It's not my job to care about you. I care about the real men down there. The ones who'll do something useful with their lives, rather than skulking about in shadows."  
"However, that doesn't involve me sir."  
"Do you realise how pathetic, how absolutely GUT-WRENCHINGLY pathetic, those Intelligence people are?" continued the Major. "Messing about with spies and disguises while the real men go out and die. Like to mess about and watch people die, Jiro?"  
"I am in no way affiliated with an Intelligence branch, apart from my own Signals unit, sir."  
"So you deny it then, recruit?" The Major stared at him.  
"That I do, sir."  
The officer looked over at the sergeant for a moment and moved his eyes back to Jiro again. "If you tell me who you're working for, I can make your life easier here Jiro." He leant forward, suddenly jovial. "You've got to see my problem here. You can't just run people through basic training without the correct papers. What if something happened? Disaster, war, anything? You'd be shipped off to the wrong unit, with no knowledge, no understanding... Turn up dead."  
He steepled his hands. "So?"

"I am afraid I am unable to give any aid in this, sir, as I am not a member of any Intelligence agency," replied Jiro. His ears were burning and he hoped they didn't show.  
"I could have you arrested for lying to a superior officer," said the Major sharply, "Tell me who you're training for."  
"I regret-"

The Major held out his hand, shutting Jiro up. "And you've had no previous military experience." He shook his head, laughing. "Must have this ability for lying in your blood." The laughter vanished. "Now, you have one last chance. Tell me which agency you're working for, or your life here will be made a living hell. If you think it can get bad, I can make it worse. I could have you cleaning every single screw head in the entire camp if I want." He smiled grimly, "I can tell the officers you have after me that you are a liar, a braggart and a bad influence. If you tell me now, I can make your time here go like a wet-dream..." He shrugged. "Your call."

Jiro looked at him, blinked and opened his mouth. "That's very nice of you to offer, sir. But I am afraid that I am in no way affiliated with any Intelligence agency other than the one I am currently training for."

"You can leave recruit," said the Major, his face as blank and wooden as the office walls. Jiro rose and snapped off a salute before leaving, closing the door behind him. The office door led out onto the corridor directly, and as Jiro looked up and down it, he realised it was empty. He felt dreadful and his stomach was trying to escape up his throat. On one hand, if that had been some kind of test -a very basic one, compared to the sort of tests they showed in the movies- then he was fine. He'd proven he was able to keep his mouth shut. But what if the Major had really meant it... he shouldn't have known about his real being here and from what Jiro had seen (also in the movies) about spies, was that people, no matter how important, shouldn't be able to point them out.

He really felt ill now. He was going to be a spy... and he felt sick just being grilled by his superior officer.

_Of course, there was one way of checking out whether he meant it or not...  
_ No. He shook the thought from his mind. It was totally wrong, and he'd never done such a thing in his life.  
_But then again, if he was to be a spy..._

Quietly he knelt and pressed his ear against the wood. He could pick out the buzzing of conversation, but little more. Feeling a little guilty at his actions, he stood back up.

He got back to the billet just in time for Sergeant Maino to continue the examination and throw Jiro's novel through the, fortunately open, window.

Somehow, Jiro got the impression that he had made the right choice.

* * * * *

The first four weeks involved learning the ropes, the art of discipline. The three 'P's; Punishment, parading and punishment. Those who couldn't take the grueling regime walked, which included one man from Four Section and another two from Five Section. Following the basic weeding, the next four weeks started the military ideology proper. Weapons training, boxing, ten-mile runs and more cold showers than could be handled. Live ammunition was used for that _realistic_ touch. One blast in four-hundred, and although not strong enough to kill it would wind a victim up in the camp hospital for a few weeks, and then he'd have to take the course over from the beginning.  
After two weeks many of the recruits began to believe there was no outside. By the fourth week, most recruits denied there was anything past the camp fence. At the end of the sixth week, not one man in the entire platoon believed there was an outside. If there was, the NCOs weren't saying.

Breakfast lasted fifty-minutes, although recruits had to also make their beds, get their kit cleaned and pressed, get washed and shaved, get changed, ready weapons and be at attention at their beds within that time also. Jiro sat at the end of the long table inside the mess hall and prodded at the noodles and porridge in his bowl. Apart from the chef and the two orderlies, there were only a brace of other men apart from himself.  
Gharnar, the Marine recruit who sleep in the bed-box next to Jiro's, was sitting at the furthest end of the table. The other man was Ecnil, a back-squadded trainee pilot, who Jiro had only come into close contact with twice before. Once had been when he'd split the pilot's lip and eyebrow during boxing training, the other when Jiro had been tackled and punched into unconsciousness during a similar exercise. They picked at their bowls of food with the strange metal 'spoons' that had been given to them. Jiro scooped up a spoonful from his bowl and ate the mess, deciding after the first moutful that it was probably the best food in the world. He couldn't remember eating anything other than it.

"Taste good?" asked a voice beside him.  
"This is becoming a habit, Parishi," Jiro said, then took another mouthful. He swallowed. "Why do you feel the need to keep sneaking up behind me all the time?"  
Parishi, standing next to him, put his bowl and spoon on the table, then sat down. "Don't you like me sneaking about?"  
"I don't like _you_ very much at all," replied Jiro.  
"Is that why you've been ignoring me?"

Jiro nodded. 

That was true. Since the Major's 'Queries' (which with every passing day appeared to have been some kind of test) he'd become part of the team, got to be friends with the rest of the Section. It had taken six weeks, longer than expected, but it had happened for everyone. Everyone, with one exception; Parishi. Not since that strange little conversation by his locker on the first day. From then, he had practically gone out of his way to not even stand next to this curious man. It wasn't simply the fact that he was older than the rest (as Jiro often got on better with people older than himself), but rather it was the way the man carried himself. He was always out of bed first, he always knew what to do, seemingly before it'd been shown to him, and there was some aura around him. Not to mention the fact he crept around silently, the only notice he was there being his snide voice in your ear. Jiro wasn't the only recruit in Four Section that kept out of his way.

"That's rude y'know," said Parishi matter-of-factly, before picking up his own spoon.  
Jiro glared at his food. "So's sneaking about. I asked you before, why do you feel the need to keep appearing behind me?"  
"Practice." The other man gave a wry grin, "So should you be."  
"Enlisted Signalmen don't need to sneak about."  
Another grin. "Funny. Because I could have sworn that's what Signals was all about. Sneaking. Watching." He leant closer to Jiro. "Spying," he hissed.  
"I don't think so," Jiro said. He dropped his spoon into the half-empty bowl and got up.  
The other man watched him rise. "I'm with you, Jiro. I know you're wondering what the Goddess you're doing here."  
Jiro paused, half risen. Then he sat back down. "First off; I despise blasphemy without reason. Second; what are you talking about?"  
"A better question is what am _I_ doing here."  
"What am I doing here then, Mr. Clever?"  
Parishi bared his teeth in a devilish smile. "You're training for the SEOE. One of the chosen few. The crème de la crème of the Intelligence organisations. The elite class of the military profession. The men in the know, as it were."  
"Has anyone told you it's annoying to speak in cryptic riddles?"  
"Has anyone told you sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?" Parishi shoveled another spoonful of porridge and noodles into his maw, and then continued, "Anyway, cryptic riddles are my forte. I was a code-breaker for Army Intelligence." He raised his hand to ward off a non-existent outburst from Jiro, "I'm retraining for entrance into Special Operations. Same as you. Except... I've heard some rumours that you were offered the job without any prior military knowledge. Correct?"  
"Yes."  
The other man raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You must be one tough bastard. Although I wouldn't say that just by looking at you." Another cheeky grin. "In fact, you look like you should be a clerk. Or an accountant." Parishi finished the bowl and stacked Jiro's and his own on top of one another. The pair rose and walked over to the pile of dirty bowls by the exit.  
"What did you want to get in for, when you signed up?" asked Parishi as he put the bowls down and went out through the door, Jiro in tow.

As usual it was drizzling. A handful of other recruits milled around as Jiro and Parishi stalked across the slick concrete to Billet IV.  
"Royal Bodyguard," answered Jiro.  
The ex-code-breaker grunted in affirmation. "Figures," he muttered. Then louder, "The only people who try for Bodyguard are monarchists and boot-lickers. Obviously, the monarchists are there because they're patriots. The boot-lickers are just scum who want to be near the Royal family." He turned to Jiro. "Boot-lickers make it into the Bodyguard.   
"I guess you're one of those rare monarchists I hear so much about." They stopped outside the door to their billet. Parishi held open the door and waved Jiro through.

"Patriots first," he said smugly.

* * * * *

The eighth week in began the proper combat training. Parishi, who had proved a goldmine of knowledge for most other things, came to be a sort of mentor for Jiro. Although he didn't look it, at just 168 pounds and five foot six in height the Code-Breaker was a formidable skull-cracker.  
Skull-cracking and man-handling was what the Instructors lumped together any form of unarmed combat. Karate, Juraian Basic, La Savate, Three Arms, Loparioso Jung-Ke, boxing; a galaxy's collection of self-defence unceremoniously cobbled together into a lethal mish-mash of styles. Throws, holds and other mostly non-lethal forms of combat were put under man-handling. Skull-cracking catered for the other urge, reducing the target to a quivering mass of snapped bones and bloodied flesh.  
Parishi's skill lay in his skull-cracking technique. During the first combat test, the P.T. Instructor made the mistake of putting Parishi up against a six foot, 250 pound, wannabe Commando. When the small Code-Breaker had finished, the Commando's arm was broken in six places and both his shins had been shattered. It was quickly decided to put Parishi into an advanced course, which he brushed through quickly enough to aid the only slightly above-average Jiro.

The pair would often skip Post Call (allowable if the man felt that he would rather leave his mail to the tender mercies of his billet members. Unsurprisingly, after demonstrating his combat prowess, Parishi's mail was never tampered with) going out to the roofed, dojo-like training hall for practice.

Once again Jiro picked himself up from the padded mats and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. "Tsunami. That hurt!" He limped over to the wood bench that was set against one wall. Parishi rubbed his knuckles painfully. Over on the other side of the hall, other groups of recruits were practicing their own combat. Every so often there was a soft _crump_, as someone hit the mats.  
"You've got one hard jaw," he said finally.  
Jiro took the aforementioned body part in his hand and gently waggled it. His jaw clicked. "I'm going to need to see the duty-med after this."  
"You're such a wimp," replied Parishi. He raised his fist and blew on the knuckles in an attempt to stop the swelling. "You've got to get angry. Get your emotions flowing."  
"I don't get angry."  
Parishi looked at Jiro and nodded. "I know, 'Ice for blood'. Didn't you fight at school?"  
"Yes." Jiro rolled up his trouser leg and looked at his ankle. A large, black bruise was beginning to blossom.  
"Did you win?"  
Jiro gave a slight shrug and grimaced at the pain in his shoulder. "Sometimes." He pulled down his collar and tried to get a look at his shoulder. It looked like there was another bruise there. He touched it gently and shrank back at the soreness.  
"I don't know why you bother Jiro. Why don't you go and take up farming?"  
"Buy a farm?"  
The Code-Breaker laughed. "You don't want to buy the farm, believe me. Come on. Have another go."

Jiro got up off the bench and walked over to the centre mat. He fell into the combat stance, right foot forward. "Any rules?"  
Parishi pondered for a moment. "Howsabout the winner buys the other a drink at the NAAFI. Loser gets the right to be ribbed every time he's met in the barracks."  
"Fine."  
The pair circled each other around the mat. A tentative feint there, a snap-kick here. Then they crashed together. There was a flurry of blows and they parted. Jiro wiped at the split above his eyebrow. Parishi fell back, dropping into a lower stance. His knuckles shone red raw. "Angry yet?"  
"Not even remotely."  
There was another clash. This time Parishi jumped backwards, his right eye shuttered and swelling from a quick jab. Jiro followed up with an uppercut that missed entirely, leaving him open for two painful chops at his unprotected stomach. He stumbled back, wheezing. Parishi lunged forward with a heel-kick that connected quite satisfactorily with Jiro's chin. Jiro toppled.  
"You okay?" asked Parishi, standing over him.  
"Fine," came Jiro's reply. He pulled himself up to standing and spat a red and shining tooth onto the mat. "Guess what."  
Parishi looked at him, "What?"  
"I'm annoyed." 

Parishi fell into a defensive stance as the other man stepped forward and attacked, one fist coming under arm, one over in a Karate 'yama-zuki' or 'U-Punch'. Parishi managed to block the top most blow, but the second one caught him under the ribs, knocking the wind from him. He bent over double, his head coming down to meet Jiro's knee, which was coming up. There was a vicious snap and his head whipped back, blood and mucus leaving a rainbow-like arc in the air, and Jiro followed up with two more kicks, one to each side of the head. Parishi fell over backwards to hit the floor. Nose oozing blood, he tried to rise, pressing himself up on his elbows, and as he did Jiro stepped forward. He brought his elbow down hard against Parishi's face. The Code-Breaker dropped back down, eyes closed, nose buckled. Unmoving.  
The other recruits stopped their training at the noise and turned to look at the bleeding Jiro and the downed man. One of them ran for the door, probably to get one of the NCOs or a medic. "Tsunami be damned!" shouted someone, "Someone got Parishi down!" "That was Jiro!" "That can't be!" "Look!" "But no one-"

"I'm sorry." Jiro muttered as he limped back to the bench. He sat on it heavily, the feeling that he hated so much beginning to well up in him. "It just comes over me sometimes."

The PT Instructor and the the Lance Corporals from One and Seven Section found him curled up asleep on the bench when they arrived five minutes later.

* * * * *

Hearing the blood pounding in his ears, Jiro's breath came in ragged gasps, his feet hitting the mud with steady thuds. Ahead of him was the machinegun nest, behind him the rest of his team. He felt, rather than saw, the blaster fire racing around him.

Three yards to go until he hit it, and this close he could see the shock on the gunner's face. _One, two, three!_ He leapt over the sandbags in front of him, rolling as he hit the ground, coming out of it laying prone. A blast plucked at his sleeve and he snapped off a round at the man aiming at him, who up until a few moments ago had been using the machinegun.

"DEAD!" shouted the man. He lay down on the floor, hands behind head.  
Two more men vaulted the sandbags behind Jiro, blasts flying about them. Jiro grabbed another clip from his belt and slapped it into his rifle.   
Then the grenade that he hadn't even noticed went off by his head. The three men stood up, coughing, gagging at the smoke from the explosive.

Lance Corporal Shin-zo walked over to them, rifle slung across his chest, face caked with mud. "How long have you been doing this again?"  
Jiro retched, held up five fingers. "Five... days..." he choked through a throat that felt two sizes too small.  
"Yes, I thought it was," nodded the Corporal. He kicked the sputtering gas grenade over the sandbags and away from the group, "But that doesn't really explain WHY THE FUCK YOU CAN'T DO THIS BLOODY SIMPLE LITTLE EXERCISE! GET UP AND STAND TO ATTENTION!"  
The men snapped into perfect attention, their eyes still red and streaming.  
"By the Goddess, Jiro. You certainly showed some spine there, for a signalman at least," said Shin-zo. He nodded to himself, then leant on the sandbags. "But what the hell went wrong?"  
"I... think we failed... to notice the grenade... Lance."

Behind them Lance Corporal Rio got up from the dirt and removed his nose-plugs. "Jiro. Do you want to take it again?"  
"Would I get another chance in real life?"  
"Nope. What about you others?"  
The two men answered in the negative. "Black marks all around then," sniffed Shin-zo. He pointed toward the way the three trainees had come. "Clear off the lot of you. Get back to the dugout and tell the next three to come up. Then wait there. Got it?"  
"Lance!" replied the three men, and they broke off at a trot back towards the dugout.

Brecknel Field was Basic Training Camp 040-32's main simulation site. When the recruits actually made it into their respective branches they'd get a taste of VR-combat, maybe even some in-depth hypnotic simulations. Until then it was simply a case of making mockups of buildings out of balsawood and sandbags and then letting the men loose on it. Totally insane under the circumstances Jiro had decided, after getting clipped with a live blaster round, although he knew he'd come off better than two others in Six Section. He didn't know if it was true - he'd never met any section apart from his own and Five - but there were some educated rumours that a pair of recruits had been caught in one of the live grenades that make up the four-hundred. Serious enough for hospitilisation of one, the other getting a medical discharge for shrapnel injuries. A rather sticky end.

The dugout was a simple trench dug across the width of the field. It's base was planked and there was a step cut into its wall, giving occupants somewhere to sit. Three other recruits were sitting there, when Jiro's troop arrived, but they left as soon as they caught sight of the returnees. No one wanted to feel the wrath of the Lance Corporals, especially when there was the prospect of live ammunition.  
Jiro's group sat on the dugout's step. He undid his choker and propped his rifle against his knee. Adrenaline was still going, but he felt perfectly calm. He always did after combat training, although he was interested to see how it held in true action. One of his teammates, Yahamoti, sat near him, his heel clicking against the boardwalk rhythmically.  
Jiro and Parishi, who still brandished a large white plaster across the bridge of his nose, watched it with sullen interest.  
"I can't help it," said Yahamoti eventually. "I always get the shakes after combat."  
"Proves your alive, doesn't it?" replied Parishi. He looked away. "Be thankful of that."

Yahamoti frowned at him, then pressed his hand down hard against his knee, holding the foot to the ground. "I'm beginning to wish I wasn't." He looked at Jiro, "Don't you wish you weren't?"  
Off in the distance there was the chatter of blaster fire.  
"What's your dream?" asked Parishi suddenly.   
Jiro looked up, "Sorry, were you asking me?"  
"Yeah, why not? What's your dream, Jiro?"  
Jiro shrugged, "Ask Yahamito."  
"I want to be a billionaire," said Yahamito, without waiting to be asked, "With six wives. And a mansion."  
Parishi nodded, non-committal. "A dream as good as any. Jiro?"  
"I don't want to tell you my dream," said Jiro. He stood up and stretched.  
"Why not?"  
"Because you'll laugh," Jiro said. He paced the trench for a few seconds letting the circulation get back to his legs. "And because it's none of your business."  
It was Parishi's turn to shrug. He sat there and looked at the sky. Yahamoti watched the pair of silent men for several minutes. Then went back to tapping his heel against the boards.

There was a dull explosion over on the simulation field, and the sounds of someone screaming.

* * * * *

Jiro stepped into the billet, followed by the rest of Four Section. His uniform was caked with mud, he had the beginnings of a black eye and he was missing about six pints of blood, or so it felt. He trudged over to his bed, leaving a trail of muddy footprints that was added to by the feet of the other men. A sixteen mile run, followed by simulated base defence, then another sixteen mile run back, rounded off with standing in the billets' courtyard for six hours. Just a normal day...

He sat on his bed and pulled off his shoes. The sole of his right sock was a vivid red from toes to heel. Without a word he slid off the sticky woolen and checked his foot. Blood everywhere. If this had been just under twelve weeks ago, he noted, he'd probably have started whining or moaning about how much it hurt. Now, he was just too tired to complain. He opened his locker, took a field-medical kit out and put a thick plaster over the cut opposite his foot's arch.  
He looked up and around the room. Some of the other men (he couldn't see them as recruits anymore, even though he and they still were) were getting changed. Others lay on their bed boxes, still in their rain sodden clothes, reading. Since the ninth week, there had been more leniency in how the beds were looked after. Sometimes they had been let off for leaving their beds in a state, although it was still a rare occurrence. Jiro felt a sudden pang of sadness.

_ Tomorrow left_, he thought sadly. _Tomorrow, then we go._

He stood up and reached into his locker for his photograph. He didn't hide it any longer, because, well, what was the point? There was no embarrassment in emotions. Each of them's got their own little trinket, his mind told him. _Rama, he's got a fluffy toy that he keeps in his rucksack, and Gharnar, he's got a lucky strip of bark from a Holy Tree. I mean, it's perfectly normal to have-_

"Right." He span around. "Which clever bastard thought it'd be funny to take my photograph?"  
Thirteen faces stared at him. He hobbled into the aisle between the rows of bed boxes. "I want my photograph back. Now."  
"Why do you have a photograph of Princess Ayeka in your locker?" asked a wannabe-tank gunner.  
Jiro looked at him. "Well, I don't at the moment. Because one of you has stolen it."  
"Well, yeah," smiled the man, "But why did you have it?"

"Wha- What does it matter to you?" Jiro turned to the others, "What is this? 'Let's laugh at Jiro day'?"  
Thirteen heads nodded. "So. Why did you have her picture?" asked the gunner again.  
Jiro's mouth opened to give some witty reply, and then thought better of it. "To remember why I'm here," he stated simply. Parishi, sitting on his bed-box, looked down the room at him.  
"I don't think it's very fair to blame Ayeka for your being stupid," he said blithely.  
Jiro's face reddened. "Look, this is not funny. Will whoever's got my photograph give it back, please. NOW!"  
"No one's got your photograph," somebody shouted out. Somebody else giggled.  
Jiro's fists clenched. "Then where in the name of ..." His mouth made to say a word which he knew he shouldn't. He changed it something else, "In the name of all that is Holy, is it?"  
Thirteen heads turned slowly upwards to fix on the ceiling, at a point above Jiro's bed. Slowly he felt his entire body freeze, his brain beginning to work on what was being said.  
He turned around and followed their gaze. "Absolutely hilarious," he growled.  
The picture of Ayeka he'd cut out of the magazine, smiled down at his bed from where it had been stapled.  
"Catch!" shouted Parishi and Jiro just caught the photograph frame that was thrown at him. He felt anger was slowly dissipating into bemusement as he stared at the portrait on his ceiling. He shook his head. "Why did you stick it up there?"  
"We knew how much you liked it, so we thought you'd like to get a good view every night before getting to sleep. If you get what I mean!" Parishi called. There were laughs from the others.   
"And because you fancy her, an' all," guffawed Gharnar.  
"I do not fancy her!" mumbled Jiro as he climbed onto his bed. He reached up for the offending article, but found he was still a few inches too short. "I'm the tallest one in here and even I can't reach it! How'd you get it up there?" He bounced on the mattress, but even with the extra height he still couldn't get it.  
"Corporal Shin-zo lent us a ladder," said Ecnil, beaming from ear to ear. "Anyway, why take it down? She'll be the first thing you dream of tonight." He grinned at the other men, "Not that he doesn't anyway."  
"This has gone far enough!" Jiro roared from the top of his bed. He made another leap for the picture. "I do not want to get it on with Princess Ayeka. I have more decorum than that." He pointed at the rest of the section, "And, I'll have you know, I don't dream of her either."

One of the men, an Army Intelligence recruit, held up a sound-recorder and pressed the play button. They all listened in silence to the noises that came from it.  
Finally Jiro looked at him. "You're dead," he laughed, "You are so _dead_."

He lunged.

* * * * * 

  


_Act 2  
'The Virtue of the Vicious'_

"Tanhar Vaan Ma'hr"  
- SEOE Motto 

_Training moved by like a breeze; for me at least. I woke up one morning to find eighty-five and a half years had passed.  
There's nothing more shocking than that. I passed out of Basic Training with no fanfare, somebody from Five Section garnering the coveted Best Overall Trainee award at the end of it all. One man from my Section got the Most Improved award. He was a snub-nosed little fellow with big eyes. Never did get his name.  
He died during live grenade practice at the Army's Advanced Training six weeks later. We were finding bits of him in our hair for weeks afterwards, because Juraian grenades, they don't mess around. When they go off, they explode good._

_ So I was moved off to an Army Training facility, where I learnt the art of fighting like cannon fodder. No matter what anyone tells you, the army's got no finesse, it's just a sledge hammer. The Commandos are better, I trained with them for a good year... Oh, and as an equal opportunity fighting force, Jurai allows women Commandos. I had the distinct fortune to train under a woman who matched good looks and charm with the ability to kill a man at three hundred feet with a .22 rifle.   
That's the other interesting thing. Although the basic weapon of the Juraian military is the high powered blaster rifle (incorrectly called by the media a LASER rifle), a soldier, especially a Commando, must be trained in the usage of the more esoteric technology that can be scavenged or manufactured in the field.  
I've played with toys that could blow a Galaxy-class starship to composite atoms, but nothing comes close to a basic bolt action rifle with a non-slip butt. I can get off twenty rounds using a bolt-action when a squaddie can get off twelve with his blaster. Plus, a projectile launcher can be suppressed (not silenced. You can quiet it, but not silence it) and its flash hidden. That's why Army snipers use a magnet powered - or railgun - version of the rifle that backwater planets use._

_ Things were easier now than they ever had been before. I sort of slipped between the cracks, as it were. Stole myself a 90% shot ratio with all of my weapons (except the sniper rifle which I mentioned earlier, with that I scraped up a measly 87.8%) but no one seemed to notice how well I did.  
A deliberate action on my new boss' part, it soon transpired.  
After the Army came the Navy. I learnt to fly everything but those nimble little drone ships... The ones that buzz about at around a million miles per hour. Of course, you don't man them, but sit in a command booth back at base with a remote control. I crashed two of them before they kicked me off the course.  
Let's just say they weren't best pleased.  
I never met or trained with the NID, but then again, now that I know what they're like I wouldn't have wanted to._

_ Royal Bodyguard proved to be the easiest course yet. Marched through it like I was on the parade ground. I did the final examination after eight weeks of being there. Not the fastest time I'll admit, as one of the other guys (who was also a _'Signalman'_, if you catch my meaning) got through in six weeks and two days. A record.  
We didn't go with the Marines, as we'd already trained with the Commandos and it was essentially the same, but with more emphasis on hard and fast assault landings against enemy held territory. Well, thank you very much, but if I wanted to throw myself into the jaws of death I'd have joined the Death's Head Battalion.  
But I've said too much there already..._

_ The final 'official' course was the Intelligence Branch's training, and that was hard. Seriously hard. But Parishi was there, and he'd had to do it to get into the Army Intelligence, so I had inside knowledge of what to do. I learnt nearly everything I use today in that camp. Covert tailing of a suspect; shaking a tail; establishing ongoing surveillance; spot surveillance; surreptitious letter opening; bug placing; fumigating for those bugs I hadn't placed but someone else had; concealment of items or documents; basic forgery; conducting a hand-over; creating dead-letter drops and microdots; searching for concealed equipment or weapons; using sniffers and stompers, those little things that track down and stop tracking devices; and the big one, methods of clandestine, covert and overt infiltration and exfiltration. It's all very well knowing what to do, but it doesn't help if you can't actually get into the place.  
Tricks in how to threaten people; breaking and entering - the so called Black Bag Jobs; kidnapping; how to incite revolution; propaganda dispersal; collection of intelligence information; field dissemination of collected intelligence; assault tactics; cleaning up a 'dirty' site; denying assets to the enemy, which generally meant you took a sledgehammer to the computer you were working on, tipped flammable liquid over it and then torched it. Lots of funky stuff to be sure. We learnt everything apart from how to assassinate a man (by assassinate I mean kill in a preordained way. Killing a sentry or someone who gets in the way isn't called assassination. That's called 'murder'), because Jurai doesn't allow the killing of a man who hasn't been arrested and tried by an impartial court._

_ Ironic, huh?_

_ That's where the SEOE comes in. Up until I actually went off to their training camp I'd managed to work my way through all the military branches, with enough skill and aplomb to make a good living as a top intelligence operative or high-ranking soldier. I had trained with weapons that could devastate a planet at the press of a button (simulated of course); got to grips with the basics of fighter-spacecraft. Well, okay, I could take off and land one, although engaging in a dog-fight would probably end up with my being dead. Unless the other guy was blind or green. I could B&E most mid-security facilities...  
I thought I was good._

_ I knew nothing._

Jiro's choker dug tightly into his Adam's apple as he stood by the entrance to Intelligence Training Camp 9. Behind him the half-a-dozen other SEOE recruits paced the roadside, standing alone or talking in groups. All wore their Signals uniforms, in a desperate bid to make a good impression. Not one of them _hadn't_ been chewed out for turning up for a brief in entirely the wrong uniform and suffered the indignity of peeling potatoes in the mess hall or scrubbing the toilets with their toothbrushes.

If there was one thing Jiro had learnt, it was expect nothing, and it was why he was standing there impassively, looking at the fifteen feet wall, and the massive iron gate and the guard in his booth next to it with solemn indifference. There had been the usual rumours about the place, some of them true, some of them false. Most of them probably being the latter.

From what he had learnt, the Camp had been the property of the Intelligence Bureau since the end of the Second Civil War, as a storage facility. After the ill-fated coup d'état attempted by Duke Matsuue, it had been turned over to the Prime Minister's newly formed Ministry of Communications Security, which in turn collapsed under its own morass of political U-turns and scandals. There it was handed over to the final group, the Central Information Service, a government funded think-tank for helping in everything from new anti-pollution methods to the development of super-weapons.  
It was they who still owned it. Officially at least.

You couldn't get through training without hearing the snatches of conversation about what really went on behind closed CIS doors. Aside from its actions in aiding the government in designing new military applicable equipment, the CIS was also, supposedly, the collector and distributor of information that even the other intelligence departments couldn't get their hands on. There was even talk that their computers were more powerful than the other '_real_' agencies', and so they were used to assist in those times when even the mighty Juraian intelligence machine was brought to a standstill.

Whatever the case, the CIS had a publicly available directory-listed holophone number, it wasn't hiring staff and it didn't need a sponsor.

Jiro picked up his gym bag. Three pairs of clothes, a photograph and a novel were its only contents. He'd taken to carrying the last two simply for old time's sake. He'd finished the book eighty-five years ago and the photograph still had the staple marks in it, but he didn't really care. It was his stuff damn it, and if they wanted it they'd have to fight him for it!  
He turned and looked at the small group of recruits behind him. He knew none of them. Not a single one. Parishi had disappeared one night, no answers given at breakfast the next morning. That had been six months ago.

He turned back again when he heard the massive metal gates begin to grind open. Past it he could see the camp itself, its buildings standing in the synthesised sunlight, surrounded by grass and trees and winding paths.  
A woman walked out towards them smiling. She was wearing a fashionable red and green skirt and shoulder-padded cloak, hair coming down in a trio of bunches. "Gentlemen," she beamed, "I'm so glad you could all make it."

The 'gentlemen' paid a good deal of attention to her. The woman (_girl_, thought Jiro, _she wasn't that old at all. A few years out of school at most_) didn't seem bothered by the looks she was being given, but instead motioned for them to follow her, like they were a bunch of pre-schoolers. "If you gentlemen wouldn't mind following me," she said politely, still smiling, "The Camp Commander will meet you in Lecture Hall 3. Refreshments will be available there."

"You mean refreshments, as in drinks?" asked someone behind Jiro.  
The girl nodded, "Tea, coffee, soft drinks, yes. So if you wouldn't mind-" She repeated the motion and turned on her heel, the skirt riding up to her calf and giving an appetising look at her leg before falling back down again. The recruits stood there and looked at each other.

_ Refreshments? At a Training Facility? _Jiro couldn't hide his surprise. In nearly a century of training, he had never arrived at a place to find himself being offered drinks. Let alone good looking women with nice legs asking (not ordering but _asking_) them to come and meet the Commander. It was unheard of! The other recruits were exchanging the same looks of utter incomprehension. Up ahead the girl paused in her walk and turned to look at the immobile men.  
"Come on!" she called and set back off again.  
Never one to ignore a direct order, especially one from a girl with good legs, Jiro cantered along behind her, the rest falling in also.

The entire camp was inconceivable, and the recruits followed the girl along the winding paths with their faces firmly set to 'stunned'. It looked, and felt, more like a University than a military facility. The buildings were a mix of Juraian wood and modern-looking glass and iron. Between which pathways ran, weaving in intricate junctions and throughways across the neatly cut grass. There was no concrete to be seen covering the ground anywhere. There were people walking, not running, just ambling along the paths and across the grass, some in uniform, mostly out, but all calm. There was no shouting, chanting or the stomp of drill. Just the sounds of mild conversation, the birds and the dim sound of traffic over the outer wall. Some people were lounging under the shade of firm trunked trees, reading or talking.  
_Shade!  
_Jiro looked up. In no other camp had he been had he needed shade before. There'd never been a need, as the camps had never had a weather control system, or if they did had set them to 'continuous rain'. Here the sun was shining, and he was sweating without the need for strenuous exercise.  
Amazing.

As the group walked, the girl pointed out the various buildings with honest enthusiasm. "That's the swimming pool and gymnasium," she said, pointing at a bulky glass building a few thousand yards away.  
"How big is this place?" asked one of the recruits.  
"160 acres," came the cheerful reply, "We're trying to buy another forty, but it might take another few years, oh, and that's Dormitory C."  
She continued pointing things out until they got to the lecture hall.

The hall was laid out like a movie theatre, the podium and holoscreen at the front, the aisles of seats going up a steep incline. The seven recruits were directed to sit, the girl moving down to stand at base of the stand and the podium atop it. She hadn't given her name, nor had she asked for any, Jiro noted. Another difference from the norm.  
Before he could ponder any deeply on this wonder, the door at the bottom of the room opened and two men stepped through. Both casually dressed, one moved up to the podium, the other stood next to the door with his arms folded.

"Gentlemen," said the man at the podium, his voice resonant, "I am Commander Asashi of Training Camp 9. Those of you with a deeper grasping of antediluvian languages might get a kick out of its nickname, 'Camp Koroshiya'." He smiled, but none of the seven recruits in front of him made any movement of understanding. "Never mind. I'm sure someone will teach you it.

"You are, in all respects, the best. You have been poached from the best the military has to offer, and all of you have suffered, and survived, the rigorous training needed for entry here. Of the original sixteen applicants all those years ago, you are the remainder, and it is with great pride I tell you that you have all got what it takes to work under the banner of the Special External Operations Executive." He looked across the group with respect, his eyes taking each of the men in. "Here you will be trained to the best of your abilities in order to safeguard the future of Jurai. Now, I wish speak to you all individually, so please feel free to help yourself to drinks and cakes. If you have any questions, please ask Emi." The girl by the stand gave a pleasant nod of the head.  
"I'd like to see Hisashi Dakebata, please," continued the Commander. One of the group rose, and followed Asashi out the door he had entered.

A table had been set up behind the the remainder of the recruits while the short speech had been made. There were a few bowls of biscuits and Juraian cakes, along with teapots and cups. The group helped themselves to a mug of tea and returned to their seats in silence. What was there to say?  
If there was Jiro couldn't find it. He sipped his tea in thought.  
The girl, Emi, eventually gave up waiting for questions and moved over to the man still standing, arms crossed, by the door.

The recruit, Dakebata, returned a few minutes later, grabbed the bag he had left on his seat and vanished out the door again. Emi looked up the room at the remaining recruits.  
"Mr. Jiro?"  
Jiro rose from his seat, putting down his tea and picking up his gym bag. "That's me, ma'am."  
The girl laughed. "I'm not a ma'am. No more than you're a sir, Mr. Jiro." She gave a wayward glance at the man next to her, then looked back at Jiro. "Follow me, please."

The Commander's office was a very formal thing. Although its window overlooked the vivacious greenery and trees, the room had no real life. The desk was neat and efficient, no clutter, with the computer given pride of place over to the side. However, the room was entirely at odds with the man who owned it. Commander Asashi wore civvies with a passion rarely seen, even outside the military. A tall, wiry fellow, he had to be one of the best dressed men Jiro had met in his life (although that said little, as the only time he had been in the civilian population after joining up was during those exercises that Intelligence sometimes ran or when he managed to lay his hands on a twenty-four hour pass).  
As the door closed behind Jiro, the Commander waved him over. "Come in Jiro! Sit down! And please undo that choker. I'd hate to have a man suffocate in my office."

The choker, the padded neck-brace that ran around the top of all Juraian military uniforms, was particularly uncomfortable and was only worn on parade or if the OC was a stickler for discipline. Such officers were often called, 'Arseholes'. It was only fair.  
Jiro sat down, undoing the choker with pleasure. "Thank you sir."

"So, Jiro, you've been briefed on what your work here will entail?"  
Jiro, his throat now unrestricted, shook his head. "No sir. However, I have heard rumours and hear-say, and from that I've deduced what could be trained here."  
"And that is?"  
There was a slight pause, as Jiro wondered whether to say it. "Assassination," he said finally.

The Commander see-sawed with his hand. "Close. Not our main aim, but yes, we are the only Juraian organisation to engage in acts of... politically motivated murder. Do you object to that?"  
Jiro answered truthfully. "Not in the slightest."  
"Of course not. We wouldn't have picked you otherwise." The Commander turned to the computer, its screen hidden from Jiro's view. Typing up something, the Commander returned to Jiro. "You trained at BSC 040-32. Apparently you did well."  
"No well enough to get awards when I passed out, sir."  
The Commander smiled. "No. But then again, we wouldn't have let you. Draws too much attention. Your corporals liked you."  
"They did?" asked Jiro, taken aback.  
"One of the best they taught." The Commander looked at him, "Didn't you think they liked you?"  
"No more than anyone else, sir."  
"You passed our little loyalty test. Was it easy?"  
Jiro, his memory suddenly snapping back to the Major's one-to-one talk all those years ago, allowed himself a wry smile and a nod. "Easier than the rest."  
Then the questions began to get snapped off. Quicker, faster, less chance to think about the answer.  
"Army training," said the Commander, "You put your Instructor in hospital. Why?"  
"Erm... It was combat training, sir."  
"Unarmed?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"How badly?"  
Jiro had faced worse than this before, been put under the microscope by professional Intelligence Branch interrogators. "I believe his rib pierced his lung."  
"Hmmmm... It says here you tried the new R-82 Blaster Rifle. What did you think?"  
"The barrel's too heavy and the sight tends to wander."  
"Prefer the old 78?"  
"IM-60 actually. I prefer a firm, rounded butt." He froze as he realised the Freudian slip he'd made.  
The Commander raised an eyebrow and Jiro felt his face redden. He couldn't control himself.   
"Surprising," said the Commander eventually, "What about your naval course?"  
Still blushing, Jiro snapped back a little more forcefully than he should have done, "What about it?"  
"You failed the final VR-simulation.," said the Commander simply.

"Not technically failed. I won, I just didn't survive."  
The eyebrow, which had lowered, raised itself again in question.  
"Well," continued Jiro, a little bit calmer, "I went kamikaze into the enemy's command ship."  
"How very heroic..." replied the Commander. He looked back at the computer screen. "Ah, here's an interesting one. During Intelligence training the Instructor declared that you'd never make a good HUMINT operative and so you, and I quote, 'hid inside the facility for six weeks, evading capture by base personnel, all the while collecting photo intelligence of the Instructor in question.'" He gave an amused nod. "I'm impressed. A very novel idea."  
"Thank you, sir. Although I spent six weeks kept in isolation and had to retake the twelve weeks I'd missed, so it was more of a moral victory."

Commander Asashi sat back in his chair and breathed a deep sigh. "I'll tell you this now, Jiro. I usually can't stand characters, but I'll make an exception for you. You're not a loose cannon, you're a point-maker, and that I can handle. What I cannot handle is morons who go out of their way to try and buck the system. I might not be able to handle those people, but the SEOE does. Do you know how handle them, Jiro?"  
"No sir."  
"We shoot them in the back of the head," said Asashi. He looked at Jiro, as if willing for him to comment on it.  
"Well," Jiro said, "That usually works."  
The Commander smiled. "It hasn't failed yet. Not once. Now, here at Camp 9 we have things a little different from how you're used to. People are not referred to by rank. If the person wears a uniform, he's at the bottom of the ladder. If he, or she, wears a scruffy uniform, that person is in the middle. If he wears civilian clothes, he's at the top. Understand?"  
"Yes sir."  
"Just 'yes' will do. You will attend a number of classes and lectures every weekday. You will find the lesson timetable in your apartment. All lessons will be arrived at punctually. Failure to do that, and without sufficient reason, more than a couple of times will result in us shooting you. If you tell anyone outside the SEOE about what it is we do, we'll shoot you. If you attempt to escape from the camp, we'll shoot you. If you lie to me from now on, I'll shoot you personally. Understand?"  
"Crystal," answered Jiro, more calmly than he felt.  
"I shouldn't worry though. We don't make a habit of shooting people who screw up. It'd get hard to hide all the bodies."

The Commander pressed a button on the desk's intercom, bent his head down to the speaker, "Send in Mr. Hoshi, please."  
He sat back up. "While you're here, Agent Hoshi will be your guide. He's done all of this before, so if you have any questions, feel free to ask him."  
"Actually," said Jiro, "I have a question to ask you; There was a man, Parishi Tahito. What happened to him?"  
"He failed the test."  
Jiro's eyebrows knitted in surprise. "Failed?"  
"It happens sometimes. He's back at Army Intelligence now, breaking enemy codes. Anything else?"  
"No. No, I don't think so."

He turned around at the sound of the door being opened, and looked at the man who stepped in.  
"Mr. Jiro," said Commander Asashi, "This is Agent Hoshi. Agent Hoshi-"  
"We've already met," cut in Jiro, "Although last time he was in fancy dress. An artilleryman, perhaps? In the Palace. Eighty-six years ago, thereabouts."

"Sharp eyes and good memory, Mr. Jiro," said Hoshi, "Very few people remember me." He gave a sharp grin. "But don't take it personal, we have to keep an eye on our star pupil."  
It was the same man who Jiro had met in the Palace waiting room. A little bit older and without the uniform, but he still had the cutting voice and the grin.  
"As you know each other so well," Asashi said patiently, "Perhaps Hoshi, you can take Mr. Jiro around the camp. Show him his room, the classrooms, etcetera etcetera."

"It'll be my pleasure," smiled Hoshi. He turned to Jiro, "You'd better pay attention. I'll be asking questions at the end."

* * * * * 

  


_Act 3  
'Arrival'_

  


"I have travelled so much because travel has enabled me to arrive at unknown places within my clouded self."  
- Sir Laurens Van der Post 

"We will be landing at Gate 3 of North America's 'Maine' Space Centre in five minutes. Please have passports and hand luggage prepared before we begin descent. Due to the necessity of radar shielding on entry, we ask that all computers and electrical equipment be turned off."

Seiji looked at the P.A. speaker in the aisle next to his seat. It was from that the voice was being given off. The rest of the first class passengers began to get their bags ready from the overhead lockers. The fat man unclipped the headphones and turned off the language learner.

"On behalf of all the staff of TGS Services, we'd like to say a large thank you for your custom." _And your money._ "And hope you will travel again with us soon." _Because we want even more of your money._ "We hope you've had a pleasant trip, and will enjoy your stay on Juraian Colonial Planet 0-315."  
There was a click as the pilot turned off the tannoys. _I will,_ thought Seiji. He crossed his hands on his lap and waited.

And so, the craft hit the Earth's atmosphere, its nose glowing from yellow, to orange, to red and finally to a brilliant white as it made its final movement across the heavens. From the ground it would have looked like a shooting star, something becoming much more common in the nights' sky for reasons that are all to readily apparent. The American people slept quietly in their beds, only a handful knowing of the fleeting transports high above them, that came from some far-flung galaxy. Even fewer knowing the truth about the races that these ships carried.

The shuttle touched down, with the barest hiss, at Loring Air Force Base. The facility had officially been closed back in 1994 (as the Earthlings calendar called it) but its distance from local centres of habitation made it one of the most perfect places in the United States for landing extraterrestrials and their vehicles.

Seiji, his gym bag held in one hand, his passport clenched in the other, traipsed the grey corridors toward Immigration. The sounds of work echoed long and loud all around him. Baggage staff, Space Port personnel and travelers bustling around, acting as if their lives had some importance. It amused him no end.  
'Immigration' looked exactly like every other Immigration centre in the galaxy. Apart from the khaki-clad, stern-faced men clenching their assault rifles. _If there was one thing about backwater planets_, decided Seiji as he passed another helmeted US Marine with a combat shotgun, _it was that they took their security particularly seriously_. You couldn't blame them though. They were so panicky, like grazing animals.  
_Of course, if you had Ryoko sitting in a house on your little patch of land, you'd probably be prepared to blow shit up too_, said a quiet, grim little voice in the back of his head.

He finally got out of the queue and up to one of the multitude of booths in which the Immigration Officials worked. Unlike their more _terrestrially_ oriented counterparts these ones were also wearing the standard camouflage slacks and a heavy caliber automatic at their belt.  
"Hello," said the Official, in polite but thickly accented Juraian. It sounded like he was trying to talk with his mouth full of oats.  
"Good morning," replied Seiji in flawless American.  
The Official raised his eyebrows and took the passport that Seiji handed him. He switched back to American. "That's amazing, Mister... Kinatami?"  
"Kin-I-tami," corrected Seiji.  
"Sorry, Mr. Kinitami," The man scanned the passport through the computer next to him. "It's not every day we get to speak our native language. I have to admit, you speak it very well. I'd never have guessed you weren't American."  
"Well, we live and learn," Seiji said, as if it answered anything.

"So, business or pleasure?" asked the Official. He checked the passport picture against Seiji's face, and finding nothing wrong, put it down on the counter.  
"Well, first time I came here was pleasure. Second time business. And I know they say don't mix it, but I'm afraid this time I'm going to."  
The Official nodded. "Duration of stay?"  
"A month at most."  
"Thank you... that checks out." The Official looked up. "Not that I'm saying there was any sign that you wouldn't, sir. But you know security."  
"Oh, don't apologise," smiled Seji. "Where _would_ we be without security? It's the most important thing out there."  
Nodding slowly, the Immigrations man picked up the passport and checked it again. "Erm, sir. It says here you'll be staying in Japan."  
"Ye-e-es."  
"Well, why didn't you land there?"

Seiji placed his hands on the counter, a very subconscious sign that the speaker was going to tell the truth. "That's the pleasure part." he lied, "I want to see the States properly. Then catch one of your..." He searched for a word, "Aeroplane? Yes, that's it. Aeroplane to Japan. Then get down to business."

"Do you speak Japanese, sir?" The man's voice had taken on a hard edge.  
_What? Does this guy think he can scare me?_  
"Nihongo wo hanashimasu ka?" asked Seiji. He leant on the counter and smiled, raised an eyebrow in a manner that dripped sarcasm.  
The Official blinked.  
"Kisama," Seiji muttered when no words from the other man were forthcoming.  
"Would you mind explaining what you just said?"  
Seiji nodded his head. "Yes. I would."

The Immigration man coughed loudly and looked at the growing crowds behind Seiji. "Do you know the rules sir?"  
"No non-Earth clothes, no non-Earth equipment and no talk of the big outside. I've done this before."  
"Are you carrying anything of that sort?" The queue was beginning to grow even longer.  
"Yes," replied Seiji. "But I'll turn it in at Customs."  
_As if..._

"Thank you Mister Kinitami," The man said quickly, handing the passport over. "Have a pleasant stay."  
"I'll try my hardest."

As he walked away, Seiji couldn't help but smile. _High and dry...  
_And then he remembered why he was here. He pocketed the passport, his body sagging. 

"Why didn't they stop me?" he asked quietly.   


- - - - - - - - 

Chapter 4:- Ante Bellum

If you dance with the devil, you don't change the devil. But the devil changes you.  
The tender noose of insanity, be thankful it cuts off the circulation.

- - - - - - - - 

**Disclaimer:- **This is an act of fiction. All characters are owned by their respective companies (namely Pioneer and its affiliates). All characters, equipment and situations not owned by a company is the intellectual property of the author (Ministry Agent). Special thanks to Hospitaller for use of his _Juraian Naval Intelligence Directorate_. "Barrack Room Ballads" is from Rudyard Kipling's superb poetry. "The Virtue of the Vicious" is from a quote by Oscar Wilde. Loring Air Force base is real and its history is correct to the best of my knowledge.


End file.
